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“TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS” (The Navy Version)

‘Twas the night before Christmas, compartments were still, The sailors were sleeping, as most sailors will.
The ditty bags hung by the lockers with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The men were all peacefully dreaming in bed As visions of liberty danced in each head.
The Chief in his skivvies, hopped into his rack, Having just came from town and a quick midnight snack.

When out on the deck there arose such a roar, I ran to the porthole to  find out the score.
I stuck out my head and started to shout, “Just what in the world is this noise all about?”
A moon made for boondocking showed with a glow, It was downright cold out, ’bout seven below.

What I saw out there looked like those Mardi Gras floats, T’was a Captain’s gig drawn by white Navy goats.
In the boat was a man who seemed quiet and moody, I knew in an instant St. Nick had the duty.
As quickly as Monday his Billy goats came, He whistled and shouted and called them by name.

“Now Perry, now Farragut, Dewey and Jones, What’s the matter John Paul, got lead in your bones?
A little to Starb’rd, now hold it up short, No fluffing off now, or you’ll go on report!”

He was wearing dress “Reds” that fit like a charm, His hash marks they covered the length of his arm.
The gifts to be issued were all in his pack, The gedunk was ready to leave on each rack.
His eyes they were watering, his nose caked with ice, He wiped it with canvas, then sneezed once or twice.
He opened his mouth and started to yawn, It looked like the Sun coming up with the dawn.

The stump of a pipe, he held tight in his teeth, And took a small nip from a bottle beneath.
He wasn’t so big, but he must have been strong, I figured he’d been in SEALs early and long.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Tar, Who said “Evenin’ Matey, here have a cigar.”
He filled every seabag with presents galore, And left us all leave papers, right by the door.

With “Anchors Aweigh” he climbed back into place, A broad smile was  creeping all over his face.
One look at his watch and he started to frown, “This mid-watch is certainly getting me down.”
Then out to the breakwater and into the night, The gig started fading, the landscape was bright.

“Merry Christmas” he said, as he drove on his way, Now I’ll finish my rounds and sack in for the day.”

*****

From Mikey’s Funnies, a daily email I receive.

Paging Dr. Frankenstein…

Tunes fly through the head. Words fly from the fingers. Birds lost to the moment of inspiration, loosed on the world like so much flak, clouding the web, destroying what was once a beautiful garden, now just a trash dump with diamonds in the rough.

***

I’ve heard so many people tell me they have published something with the whispered tag of “self” added almost silent. As if self was something to be ashamed of. Maybe in this day and age, it should be. Self once stood for independence, for liberty, for strength, for courage… no more. Now it seems to be a right that people club others with over the head like so many baby seals.

I’m not saying I’m that great a writer, I’m not even going to remotely compare myself with the likes of Tennyson, Twain, Chopin, O’Connor or O’Brien…

I am even sort of impressed by a person’s ability to finish a novel because it is something that I struggle with.

***

Buy me. Drink me. Eat me. As the amateur draws his catgut across the strings and causes the white rabbit to drop his watch and run from the wailing screech that bleeds his ears. “The audacity!” the creator bemoans, “You’re just jealous,” he shrills, drowning out his horrid playing in one breath.

***

Like so many others in this world, my time is important. So is my money. Why would I ever want to waste either? And yet, with Amazon and iTunes (and a plethora of others that would elongate this list to an unmanageable tangle of gnarls) leading the cause of the indie artist and making publishing it as simple as pushing a button, we have delved down a rabbit hole that may not have a cure, or at least one that in so many ways is a great thing, it has been abused and there are no police to moderate it.

***

“Back beast! Back I say!” The artist swings his keyboard in defense of his creation. “Trolls! All of you!” The fury at which he hits his delete key makes Hillary jealous. “He is not a monster! He is alive I tell you. Alive!!!”

***

And much like Dr. Frankenstein, we are so concerned with producing the next great piece of art, did we ever stop and ask ourselves whether we should?

***

Yes, yes. I know.

It’s “Franc-En-Shteen”

Death of the Hopeless Romantic

A post I wrote two years ago (yesterday) that I happen to see because of a Facebook memory popping it back up into my… um… face.

O.o

Yeah… but, edited it, fixed a few grammar mistakes (yep I make those) and figured I would regale you with the 1000 plus words on my thoughts about “hopeless romantics.”

Thoughts from the Front

hopeless-romanticThe hopeless romantic.

That person that holds on to the idea that romance is not dead. That clings to the fact that somewhere out there, there is someone who is going to fulfill their every desire and make them feel complete… by the way… thanks, Jerry MaGuire for that one…

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