The Smile On Your Dial
(a.k.a. Dr. Seuss Does DX)

The best time of the year
We DXers all agree
Is when we gather here
At the cabin by the tree.

You come here in a car
To hear stations from afar.
What could be more bizarre
Than what DXers are?

You want your signals strong.
Your antenna will be long.
You don't care where you point
just so it's not Detroit.

It's time to string that wire
You need to make it higher.
Place it way up in the tree
Where the hunters will not see.

So you try to climb a bush,
But you end up on your tush.
Next it's cross the creek.
(Why not stop and take a leak?)

Now, don't forget that copper rod!
Pound it deep into the sod.
Your hammer makes a thud,
As you slip into the mud.

By the lantern's gentle glow
You tune that station from Congo.
And the signal now you hear
Well, it's never been this clear.

There isn't time to tarry
'Cause you really want a veri.
It might be signed by Mary,
Or perhaps her Uncle Larry.

Of the language of this land,
Not a thing you understand.
But to QSL you must report.
To the phrase book you resort.

Man talking, woman talking.
You could do this sleep walking!
And now it is the time
When they stop to play a chime.

You've got just what you need
To fill your veri-greed.
On Monday put it in the mail
and to Mary say a Hail!

Time you pour yourself some coffee
(Not the kind that tastes like toffee)
The flavor's more like acid,
And it's really kind of rancid.

So you heat a can of beanies
and you eat up all the weenies.
But now it's time to pass,
So you let out all your gas

Oooo! the cabin's only room
Smells like a rodent's' tomb.
Everyone gives you a jeer.
It's the worst one of the year!


This station's in Muscat
But where the H is that?
You better check a map,
But it's time to take a crap.

So you head around the back
To that smelly little shack.
Say goodbye to cup of Joe,
and drop your offering through the hole.



Check nine nine two three.
Talk where none should be!
Tom says that it's the Beeb,
But you know he is a dweeb.

You're hoping that it's Bali,
But you know it could be Mali.
Then they start to play a tuba
And you're thinkin' Might be Cuba.

The talk is kind of murky,
So it really could be Turkey.
And no way that it's Qatar!
I bet you a dinar!


From the corner speaks up Willy,
Who says he thinks it's Chile.
But you got to wait and see
'cause the station might ID.

The announcer says Madrid,
And now you blow your lid.
You're feeling really sore -
you've heard this one before.




More logs are your desire
As your eyes begin to tire.
You want to take a snooze
But you might miss Santa Cruz.

Now no more DX to try.
The sun's up in the sky.
With bands no longer hot,
Time to lay down on your cot.

Hours later you awake
To the odor of Ken's steak.
All you can do is look
Beans are what you have to cook.



Bill claims he logged Norway
You laugh and say No way!
He retorts Ain't no baloney.
I heard it on my Sony.

You're cleaning up your trash
and you see you have a rash.
Could it be those weeds you walked through?
or that letter from Ancash?

Now your bottom's getting sore,
But you tune in Bangalore.
'Cause you gotta log one more
Before you're heading out the door.