By P.K. Silverson
© Copyright 2009
By The Author
All Rights Reserved
Twinkle, hapless little star
A-spinning out in space.
The sky above, the sand below
This trackless human race.
A ballpeen and a carpet tack
Are such a sight to see.
Especially when they’re sighted in
La rue Piccadilly.
A jar-head
And a billy goat
Were walking on the beach.
The tide came in
And washed the shore.
The goat began a speech.
“I dreamed a dream
Of mandolins.
Of maids and singing whales.
The sweetest sounds I ever heard,
They made, like nightingales.”
“‘Twas just a dream,”
The jar-head said. He sniffed and then he snorted.
“You navy boys are all quite mad.”
“Buzz off,” the goat retorted.
“When I was in the service,
I was fit and mean and lean.”
The jar-head shed nostalgic tears.
The goat said,
“Dumb Marine.”
“Let’s eat,”
The jar-head brightened up.
“Let’s eat and eat and eat.”
The goat surveyed the water’s edge that came up to his feet.
“There’s nothing here on which to dine,”
He said,
“I know, it’s true.
‘Cause I’ll eat anything at all.”
The jar-head said,
“There’s you.”
“Now wait a sec,”
The billy balked, but just a little late.
“You sailor-boys,”
the jar-head mused.
“I’ll bet you taste just great.”
He struck the ungulate a blow
Across his goatly head.
Then struck him hard again just to
Be sure the bill was dead.
The fishies watched with wonder
As the jar-head built a pyre.
“Alas, my love,”
He mourned his loss
While lighting up the fire.
He trussed and dressed and spitted up his dear departed friend,
And turned him o’er an open flame while basting him again.
Some fine young maids in scanty suits came by to see the sight.
So jar-head asked them all to stay and sup by fading light.
They ate and drank and laughed and sang
And talked on telephones.
While all the while the jar-head smiled
And jumped their pretty bones.
Twinkle, hapless little star
A-spinning out in space.
The sky above, the sand below
A scandalous embrace.
A ballpeen and a carpet tack
Got nothing much on me.
Especially when I’m getting down.
Debauching by the sea.
