Written for the Halloween night challenge for "Discovered in the Fallen Leaves" on the discoveredinalj livejournal community


I bring to thee a joyful tale
Of white capped wave and glowing sail.
Of men, the sea and leaving port,
And romance of a slashy sort.

Though please, kind reader, heed our warning
If your heart is easy torning,
While over all the story's happy,
And we almost manage sappy,

Death, that harbinger of doom,
Does cast a greedy eye and loom
Over our heroes, for heroes surely be,
Raymond and his mate Bodie,

In London town, the tale doth open,
On dockside haunt not far from Fulham.
Introductions made, as they're wont,
With a distant shot and faint heard taunt.

"Shut up, Bodie!" carries on the wind
Though humour be the prevalent trend.
"Oi! You see this?" brave Bodie spake
Causing Doyle a second, almost double take.

"You're kidding," saith Ray, after closer heeding
Of the poster Bodie'd just been reading.
"A week aboard a sailing ship?"
"Yeah! Rum, sodomy and the whip!"

Thus our tale progresses nicely
And moves our footsteps forward lightly
To the dawning of the second morn
And Bodie's thoughts as they round the Horn.



'In truth, I had not thought to see,
Yon man in rubber toe to knee.
Nor wearing yet a plastic mac
With blue inside and yellow back.

He's more inclined to skin tight jeans,
To something showing ways and means.
An opened shirt, or opaque top
All crown-ed by that roisterous mop.

Said locks are now a sorry state,
Driv'n close to cold and shivering pate
By rain, the likes of which I swear,
I'd not expect to see out here.

When asked, I did, a trip to take,
A holiday, a stint, a break,
He said, in no uncertain terms,
He'd see me sooner pushing worms

Than board this ship and join yon crew
Despite promises of a tasty brew.
I swore him then, upon my heart,
A forecast fair, horizon vast.

If but I'd known, that this would come,
That rain and hail and thunder drum,
That lightening streak across the sky
And wind screech out a louder cry.

If but I'd known, I never would,
Have talked him round with "please" and "could".
Nor mentioned birthdays, gifts, or xmas,
Or last week's disastrous siege with Hamas.

And naught but self to blame, O fool,
'Twas me who promised clouds like wool,
Who spoke of breezes warm and slight
And swimming nude in blue moonlight.

Yet under watchful jacktars' eyes
Words are naught but jests and lies.
That grimace, now, that's more his style,
(Not partial him to outward guile).

His mouth is pulled, his full lips thin,
His eyes flash angered, righteous gleam'd.
His breath doth heave, his breast a-quiver
'Tis well enough to make me shiver.

Thus punishment will come my way
Well welcomed from my darling Ray.
Though not until the door's shut fast
And hopefully he'll make it last.'



Our heroes then, despite the weather,
Seem happy with their mortal tether.
Or do they? Halt, we have not questioned
The other half of this equation.

Yon testy Doyle, reveal thy mind
Be it callous, afeared or kind?
What thoughts do crowd behind thy tongue
About poor Bodie's attempt at fun?



'Question me not, I'm bloody busy!
There's ropes to haul and the weather's shitty.
This wind's a rotten ruddy killer
Or could be with a wrong hand on the tiller.

Yet there stands Bodie, tall and fast,
Content to serve before the mast.
His body firm atop the swell
As all the others speak of hell.

Never one was there before
Who made me question every law
About security, tight and cruel,
And breaking the fraternisation rule.

Until there was he, all smiles and glee,
And rubbing hands and tea at three,
Who lifts my mood and makes me laugh,
(Even when I'm trying to barf)

Who guards my back with narrowed eyes,
Who, for a twit, has moments wise.
Whose heart, as massive as this sea,
Loves me oh! unconditionally.

So ask again just how I feel,
Despite this urge his haul to keel,
And I'll tell you true, though off the record,
(Since Cowley'd have my balls for deco.)

There's none, and again I stress,
None who makes me such a mess.
Who riles me up and calms me down,
Who swings my moods around and round.

Who lifts me high and drops me low
Who tugs me through the undertow.
And yet and so, my love for him,
Is basic, bold and full of vim.

For who could not love him the most,
Despite his tendency to boast.
Despite his arrogance and smarm,
His history jam packed full of harm.

For ne'er forget, behind pretty face
Death follows at a fulsome pace.
Those hands which bring such depth of pleasure,
Know how man's mortal thread does measure

And carry close Fates' scissored blades
To snip and snap behalf those maids.
A man whose very presence heralds
An explosiveness of deadly peril.

And yet, and though, for all his faults,
Like his tendency to hog the malt,
I'll love him first and most and last,
I'll love him 'til my life is past.'



At that, our Raymond's mouth doth shutter,
Though his eyes on thoughts do flutter
Leaving much unsaid, undone
(Though our poem's almost gone.)

Through wind and rain and storming howl,
They battle on for many an hour
The sea, our hungry desperate beast,
Tosses poor ship from north to east.

Until all hands some prayers do offer
To miss old Davey Jones' Locker.
Each man, a hymn, a voice alone,
As he's swallowed down by watery tomb.

Except our heroes, who together cling
And each the others' praises sing.
Causing curious death to wait the longer,
To see whose will is holding stronger.

Surely one under strain will buckle
And prove the one or other fickle.
Surely man must save himself
Given choice of life and health.

But no, these both are sterner stuff,
They hold well close and strong and tough,
And poor death's nerve is broken first,
And sun through clouds and rain doth burst.

Smiling down and calming seas,
And men drop grateful to their knees.
So we face conclusive proof,
The heart of all, the soul, the truth

Each loves the other even more,
And will not place himself before.
Not to save his own-ed life,
Not to pass unwanted strife.

Never to sacrifice the other,
Never to leave behind their lover.
For each is second in own heart,
Their partner takes the winning part.

'Live well,' death calls, his chilling voice
Reminding them of Hobson's choice.
'In return,' they shout out loud,
'What boon required to keep thee proud?'

'There is but one gift, I ask,
To help me fill this sorry task.
A word, a rhyme, some way to scan,
The bloody Flying Dutch-ed-man.

So rest the ship and all hands on her,
Then maybe we can post this saga
'Cause Pago Pago time is gone,
And this must all be said and done.'

'Tis solved,' yon Bodie crieth out,
'There is no worry, fear or doubt,
Simply rename the flaming thing,
And call her instead a brigatine.'

'Try Marie Celeste,' Doyle adds with glee
And Bodie nods quite happily.
'Both be ghosted ships,' he states,
'Though one has neither hands nor mates.'

And thus, and so, our leave we must,
Towards sun's rising golden cusp,
Though glance us back to booms a-jigging
In hopes of frigging in the rigging.

-- THE END --

October 2007