Archive for April 14th, 2011

The Worried Skipper (a poem, not us)

Thursday, April 14th, 2011

“I hates to think of dyin’,” says the skipper to the mate;
“Starvation, shipwrecks, heart disease, I loathe to contemplate.
I hates to think of vanities And all the crimes they lead to.”
“Then,” says the mate,
With looks sedate,
“Ye doesn’t really need to.”

“It fills me breast with sorrer,” says the skipper with a sigh,
“To conjer up the happy days what careless has slipped by.
I hates to contemplate the day I ups and left me Mary.”
“Then,” says the mate,
“Why contemplate,
If it ain’t necessary?”

“Suppose that this here vessel,” says the skipper with a groan,
“Should lose ‘er bearin’s, run away, and hump upon a stone.
Suppose she’d shiver and go down, when save ourselves we couldn’t.”
The mate replies,
“Oh, blow me eyes!
Suppose ag’in, she shouldn’t?”

“The chances is agin’ us,” says the skipper in dismay;
“If fate don’t kill us out and out, it gits us all some day.
So many perish of old age, the death rate must be fearful.”
“Well,” says the mate
“At any rate,
we might as well die cheerful.”

“I read in them statistic books,” the nervous skipper cries,
“That every minute by the clock some feller up and dies;
I wonder what disease they gits that kills in such a hurry.”
The mate he winks
and says “I thinks
they mostly dies of worry.”

“Of certain things,” the skipper sighs, “me conscience won’t be rid,
And all the wicked things I done I sure should not have did.
The wrinkles on me inmost soul compel me oft to shiver.”
“Yer soul’s first rate,”
Observes the mate,
“The trouble’s with yer liver.”

Wallace Irwin

26°30.68’S 177°23.69’E 14-Apr-11 06:48 UTC