Compil-arrr-tion

I guess the pirate poem is finished now, unless Jason feels like buckling on a swash or two.

She was a fine ship. The Dread Pirate and I have not found a satisfactory replacement in any other realm - since, due to not being completely familiar with the expectations and common practices in my new work group, I am actually sticking to fifteen minutes for break.

Yeah, you heard me, fifteen minutes. And that's without quotes around it.

This chill and windy afternoon, things came to so desperate a pass that we took refuge in the indoor break room, and lost part of our already diminished time allotment to an unusually stupid state employee (you heard me!!!) who insisted on being given an impromptu lesson on how to prepare microwave popcorn in an oven dating from the Eisenhower administration.

Did we demur, telling her we had never used this oven ourselves? Yes. Did we express our personal feelings regarding microwave popcorn, and the consumption thereof? Well, no. Still, upon being informed that no one in the room was familiar with this particular appliance, she threw up her hands in frustration and exclaimed, "Just figure it out for me! Because I haven't got a brain of my own."

Or words to that effect. Anyway, the practical upshot of this is that enough is enough. We're going back to our old break area even if we have to swim for it.

Here be the finished poem. Raise your mug to the lusty buccaneer who wrote me stanza, arrr!

The Three-Grog Marauding Group

Long ago, at home upon the sea,
A pirate band ruled all that they could see;
But, one by one, they fell away,
Alas! ‘til sadly now, today,
The jolly group lives but in memory, arrr!

Tan Justin was the first old salt to go;
We watched his passin’ wi’ much grief and woe;
Shovin’ a litterbug down the plank,
He fell into the drink, and sank;
The first o’ many, little did we know, arrr!

The Bitch o’ Cheryl stuck fast his wooden leg
Sightin’ a ship from ‘top the powder keg.
We witnessed, horrified, his lot:
Alas! Th’ enemy cannon shot
Into the cask, and blew him off his peg, arrr!

Dread Pirate Roberts, sober and austere,
Was ta’en by angels to a higher sphere.
But for the pirate wench whose heart
He stole, he will not yet depart,
And twice a day his spirit haunts us here, arrr!

B.Rrrrrrrrr, he was a brave and salty dog!
Storm downed a mast, and brained him with a log;
His memory we cheer: three cheers!
And toast the noble buccaneer
Wi’ locally produced, organic grog, arrr!

Rummy Greg, he vanished without trace,
One morn we woke to find his empty place;
Betimes some claim to catch a sight
Of Greg, when it be dark at night,
But by day he never shows his face, arrr!

Andrew the Bloody fought, and lost his life
Just as he lived: in never-ending strife,
For though he touched not milk nor meat,
And for Polly always had a treat,
He kept his fellow man at point o’ knife, arrr!

Bold Sara ruled the sea, and should rule yet;
Gold-haired, the fairest lass ye ever met;
But derring-do she, daring, did
And got grabbed by a hungry squid,
Diving from the crow’s-nest on a bet, arrr!

Bryan Redbeard sailed the ocean wide,
And took a pirate maid to be his bride;
They honeymooned in far Siam
And took ill from eating gingered ham,
And wi’ him, aye, our fair hopes sank and died, arrr!

Mad Thomas buckled on a dashing swash,
No man feared he, nor storm waves’ crash and slosh,
But brought down by a tiny foe,
A fire ant bit him on the toe,
Wi’ pain gone mad, he dove into the wash, arrr!

Black Robbie’s creditors complete our fears;
They've seized him bodily to pay arrears.
“Pirates’ worth,” snarled they, “be down!
Ye’ll fetch more booty in Georgetown.”
Then Bess sailed lonely on this sea o’ tears, arrr!

Elizabeth, who led the scurvy lot,
Met her end by way of some cannon shot.
Broadsides, white smoke, hot lead, full bore,
Our pirate wench was now no more.
To soon forget her, surely, we will not, arrr!

So, silent now, the empty ship sails on,
No trace left of its merry crew, all gone;
Pass me the rum: I’ll drink to ye,
And to the day when all will be
Together once again and all be one, arrr!

And What Is So Rare as a Day in February?

It's a lot easier to rhyme with "June," which is the main reason there aren't more great poets from Texas.

Have you ever actually read that poem? I never did before today, but I remember the "so rare as a day in June" line because it was the pivotal clue in a children's mystery story about phila - philatel - er, stamp-collecting that I read as a kid. I've just gone and looked it up and you know what?

That is one long-ass poem.

It's okay. I tend to get long-winded myself. That's why I don't have time to take down Christmas lights.

Going Down, Arrr!

Okay, somebody needs to write my stanza for the 3-Martini Marauding Group pirate poem. Because you can’t write poetry about yourself. That’s just conceited.

It’s my last week and I have not really been able to get in the kind of slacking off that I feel is appropriate for a short-timer. Which is okay. I don’t mind work per se, but today I had to cover the division phones for two hours. I hate this. I can’t believe I got roped into doing it on my last week! What’s next, a staff meeting (Robbie calls them “pointless fish meetings”) on Friday afternoon during break time?!

I should not even type that out loud.

In preparation for moving, I trimmed up my plants, and ended up with several containers full of clippings to give away. So I sent the following email out to most of my division yesterday afternoon:

Do you find your cubicle bare and colorless? Do you wish you could brighten it up a little? Have you always dreamed of having an office you couldn't get into without a machete?
 
Well, this is your lucky day, because (in the interest of portability) I have pruned back my plants.  Several yards of lush green foliage are available for all your cube decorating needs!
 
Pothos ivy loves fluorescent lighting and is practically impossible to kill: just add dirt and water! It grows quickly! It's vibrant! It's beautiful! It lifts the spirits! It freshens the air! It even eats unwelcome visitors!* Supplies are limited, so stop by and get yours today!
 
—---
*As long as they sit very still for a really long time

By 9:00 this morning all the clippings had found homes, so those who weren’t quick enough will just have to eat their own unwelcome visitors. But I’m pleased: the greenery went to some of the fresh-faced, up-and-coming young mappers, to an admin in another section, and to the one I will miss most of all: the one and only, the matchless, the incomparable Bubbly Bitching Nonsmoker. So I feel I’ve left a legacy that will keep on long after I’m gone. It’s a good feeling.

Abandon ship!

Literary Aspirations

The advantage of writing poetry is that it really makes you think pretty hard about what you're trying to say. If there are flaws in your thinking, the carefully formulated language really brings them out. So you either have to rework your ideas to be more consistent, or just scrap the poem (and the point of view that went with it) altogether. It's an excellent method for testing your logic and adjusting your ideas, and of course it builds vocabulary and is an appropriately intellectual way to pass the time, and so on and so forth.

The disadvantages of writing poetry are that (1) you end up having to throw away some very pretty verses if you can't adequately defend the thought processes behind them, plus if you don't watch it, you'll become famous and someone will come along after you're dead and publish all the stuff you never wanted anybody to see, and (2) most sensible people feel that poets, as a class, are a bunch of consumptive, vitamin-deficient Victorian nincompoops.

I do have a pretty impressive cough.

Write Poetry Like a Pirate Day

Well - if pirates wrote poetry.

Song of the Three-Grog Marauding Group
(known as the Three-Martini Break Group the other 364 days out of the year)

Long ago, at home upon the sea,
A pirate band ruled all that they could see;
But, one by one, they fell away,
Alas! ‘til sadly now, today,
The jolly group but numbers two or three, arrr!

Tan Justin was the first old salt to go;
We watched his passin’ wi’ much grief and woe;
Shovin’ a litterbug down the plank,
He fell into the drink, and sank;
The first o’ many, little did we know, arrr!

The Bitch o’ Cheryl stuck fast his wooden leg
Sightin’ a ship from ‘top the powder keg.
We witnessed, horrified, his lot:
Alas! Th’ enemy cannon shot
Into the cask, and blew him off his peg, arrr!

Dread Pirate Roberts, sober and austere,
Was ta’en by angels to a higher sphere.
But for the pirate wench whose heart
He stole, he will not yet depart,
And twice a day his spirit haunts us here, arrr!

B.Rrrrrrrrr, he was a brave and salty dog!
Storm downed a mast, and brained him with a log;
His memory we cheer: three cheers!
And toast the noble buccaneer
Wi’ locally produced, organic grog, arrr!

Rummy Greg, he vanished without trace,
One morn we woke to find his empty place;
Betimes some claim to catch a sight
Of Greg, when it be dark at night,
But by day he never shows his face, arrr!

Andrew the Bloody fought, and lost his life
Just as he lived: in never-ending strife,
For though he touched not milk nor meat,
And for Polly always had a treat,
He kept his fellow man at point o’ knife, arrr!

Bold Sara ruled the sea, and should rule yet;
Gold-haired, the fairest lass ye ever met;
But derring-do she, daring, did
And got grabbed by a hungry squid,
Diving from the crow’s-nest on a bet, arrr!

Bryan Redbeard sailed the ocean wide,
And took a pirate maid to be his bride;
They honeymooned in far Siam
And took ill from eating gingered ham,
And wi’ him, aye, our fair hopes sank and died, arrr!

Mad Thomas buckled on a dashing swash,
No man feared he, nor storm waves’ crash and slosh,
But brought down by a tiny foe,
A fire ant bit him on the toe,
Wi’ pain gone mad, he dove into the wash, arrr!

And so we saddened pirates must sail on,
Through choppy, shark-infested seas alone;
Pass me the rum: I’ll drink to ye,
And to the day when all will be
Together once again and all be one, arrr!

The Yellow Rose of Texas, C'est Moi

I'll teach Emily Dickinson a thing or two about optimism.

Pigs are the things with feathers
That might fly out my butt,
And squeal in perfect harmony,
And don't stop, no matter what,

And heartbreak ease, and PMS;
And tight must be the rope
That could hogtie the little swine
That helped so many cope.

They've cheered me in my darkest hour
When hope would be insane;
Asking nothing but to wallow
In the muddle of my brain.