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Getting a mentioned in a poem has never been a band goal but now that this has happened I must say it's kind of cool. Poetry Midwest, an internet literary magazine, published the following poem by writer/poet/food & wine critic, etc... Jen Karetnick. In this poem, Mrs. Karetnick dons her travel writer/food critic/poet (paper hat) to document her experience at the Jelly Belly Candy Factory where The Hipwaders last performed over 3 years ago. I love her description of us as, "A Mel Brooks version of The Beach Boys".
However, I must point out that the band has never, nor will ever, perform songs from "The Lion King". This sort of treacle can join the list of songs by other composers for whom The Hipwaders will never perform such as Diane Warren and Andrew Lloyd Webber. We would rather eat a dozen boxes of Jelly Belly's Harry Potter Bertie Botts. With that said, after the poem enjoy our specially-made version of "Jellybeans" for the Jelly Belly company that has never been published. We were hoping the company could use the song in some way for promotion. Sadly, the never did.
Substitute Sugars By Jen Karetnick
The morning after the death
of the Pope, at the Jelly Belly factory
where his portrait hangs, fixed in candy
like pointillism gone mad, next to Elvis
with his licorice and cappuccino sideburns
and Ronald Reagan delineated in cream soda,
pleasant but long since flat, a band
called “The Hipwaders” belted out the theme
songs to animation—Spongebob Squarepants,
The Lion King—while we ate hot dogs,
carpeted with ketchup, in the hyper-cheerful
café. From the recorded message we’d gotten
instead of directions I’d thought they were
“The Hip Waiters,” picturing men in tuxedo
jackets and cargo pants—some combination
of Todd Oldham and Old Navy—but found instead
a Mel Brooks version of the Beach Boys,
encouraging toddlers to cry in four-part chorale.
I couldn’t blame them; I was there, too,
wearing a paper hat shaped like a hope
that had seen days more crisp
than just-buttered toast, rubber pants
on my leaking patience, answering
over and over why no Jelly Belly beans
tasted like Cabernet, even though then
Mommy might like them. In fact
all production had ceased, though not
because of the Pope; inventory was being taken,
particularly of the newest flavor, mango,
with its orange-pink skin flecked with green,
mimicking the tiny fruit just beginning
to peep like the eyes of frogs from beneath
the buds in our trees at home,
and blackberry, thorned fruit
I can never get to grow. John Paul II
lay in state, televised, polished
beyond rigor mortis for whatever resurrection
might come his way. I hope he wasn’t disappointed.
The jelly beans, as it turns out, go through
three separate processes, tossed relentlessly,
drinking in the sanction of choice. In the end,
I bought ten pounds of Belly Flops,
those that didn’t quite get what kidney
shapes are all about, and don’t quite care
about livers, either. Like me, and the two kids
I know, or might know someday. Go ahead
and eat. It’s okay to gorge yourself
in the name of terminal harmony
JELLYBEANS (Jelly Belly Version) - The Hipwaders
Taggart: [fans his hat in the air] I'd say you've had enough!"
Mel Brook's "Blazing Saddles"
