Bobspirt's Fever
 

His fever is quenched...He picked a box on a hill far inland, so far
inland he will spend his time in smog layden choking traffic jams...
slow sailing his Kia boat.

More time at PTA meetings, shopping malls, burger kings, mowing the
lawn, raking the leaf's, looking at dirt. He picked a place void of a
true horizon, it hides the sky with sticks and schrubs, so far inland
a sea gull would starve, so densly packed with urban boxes spewing
foul light at night, he will never see a star to steer his kia by.

No wonder he slunked off ......ashamed....defeated....slapped down and
landlocked.

Joe

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted
knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

Bobspirt's Fever
 

"Joe" wrote in message
oups.com...
His fever is quenched...He picked a box on a hill far inland, so far
inland he will spend his time in smog layden choking traffic jams...
slow sailing his Kia boat.

More time at PTA meetings, shopping malls, burger kings, mowing the
lawn, raking the leaf's, looking at dirt. He picked a place void of a
true horizon, it hides the sky with sticks and schrubs, so far inland
a sea gull would starve, so densly packed with urban boxes spewing
foul light at night, he will never see a star to steer his kia by.

No wonder he slunked off ......ashamed....defeated....slapped down and
landlocked.

Joe

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted
knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.


He's king of a double-wide.

I bet he buys a gun within the next year.

I'm Ted Bell!