On a fateful Thursday evening in the middle of July
The Smoky Hill Young Women met, their spirits soaring high.
With camp approaching rapidly, their lead time running short
They gathered at the chapel as their site of last resort.
They came to hone the camping skills they’d carefully been taught
And practiced fire building in the church’s parking lot.
In recent days the media had done their very best
To tell of conflagrations spreading all throughout the West.
Temperatures were soaring high. Humidity was low.
And bans on outdoor fireworks just added to the woe.
So citizens were wary of incendiary dangers,
Especially of exuberant match-wielding youthful strangers.
Sister Bunker was prepared, as later she explained,
With adequate provisions to keep the flames contained.
With shavings small and steel wool to catch a flinty spark
A tiny flicker of a flame glowed bravely in the dark.
But some well-meaning neighbor, perhaps jealous of the fun,
Reached out and grabbed the telephone and punched in 9-1-1.
The call was dispatched quickly to the firehouse down the way.
The anxious crew responded to the first call of the day.
“Hey, where we goin’, captain?, asked the curious greenhorn bloke,
“The Mormon church is burning”. Exclaimed he, “HOLY SMOKE”.
The girls’ interests were waning and they wondered what came next,
Absorbed in their own messages from cell phones and from text.
The sirens’ wails were closer and fire was mostly out
When suddenly the air was still. The women turned about.
Looking up from texting, they dropped their jaws and froze
As they stared into the nozzle of a 4 inch fire hose.
A fire truck, positioned to attack the hostile flicker,
Was joined by two police cars who’d been just a little quicker.
The fire captain raised his arms and said to be at ease,
He turned to Sister Bunker and advised her, “Next time, please,
It wouldn’t hurt to call us even if the ground is damp
So we can be prepared to help you all be safe at camp”.
