#19 (From Margaret’s Uncle and secret poet, Roy Branson)

Quoth the Raven, “enough already”

We had hoped to be, upon the sea,
Not on the rocks but not on blocks.
But there we are and much too far,
From a flush toilet, with our eyes set
on a shower, our eyes red, our bodies sour

In and out, up and down, the further we must go,
The boat won’t sink and we won’t drown, we’re still on blocks, although
We be at sea (or up the creek). Avast, thar she blows, no pirates, no leak,
No transmission, no go, we’re up on blocks, you know.

We’ll sail round the world, but it will take longer.
While we’re on the blocks, and the odor stronger.
But at least, I think, though we may stink, we won’t sink
We’er still on blocks, with rocks in our head, and we’re fed
Up with the sailing, and failing to go but not on rocks still on blocks

And quoth the rabbit, “cut the crap!”