And now for something a little different, a little levitee; It is a poem, thats right, a little poem by me. It is a bad one I suppose, if I might impose, and if not well we can just disagree.


Three boys rowing in a little canoe,

   Rowing on…

               On…

                 Onward…

Through the maddening storm.

Thunderclaps pounded,

                        pounded,

                          pounded away

In the dark of the early morn.

The lake stirred,

   Wind whirled,

      Waves crashed about

          Tossing their little canoe round,

                                                    round,

                                                     round again.

                                But on they rowed.

                                         On,

                                            On,

                                              Onward HO!

Forward their captain sang; the leader of the three.

   In a voice barely audible, over the gale,

      No more than a whisper, amid the gale,

        A faint, flickering light filled with youthful fight.

Had he known Melville,

   Had he the words.

      A more formidable curse

        Would have formed on the lips

           Of the captain of that little canoe

              And the leader of the three.

FROM HELLS HEART WE COME AT THEE!

Their course was a constant battle,

   Overmatched in their little canoe,

      But their will was indomitable

         Such is youth; such is folly,

            Such is the admirable courage

              Of the crew of that little canoe

Jagged streaks of yellow-white flame

   Criss-crossed over the sky

      But on they rowed!

White knuckled fingers on the oars,

   Youthful muscles taunt, straining against the waves.

     Water, water, everywhere, water here, water there.

          Around them,

            over them,

              beneath them to.

Into the canoe it poured.

But On…

        They…

          Rowed…

Towards a sliver of land,   

  A faint half-imagined berth of sand and rock and pine trees.

    They saw it furtively across the water,

       Solid and imposing against the storm.

CRASH! ROAR!

Their ears ringing,

   Their hopes clinging,

      To a little canoe,

         Storm tossed and forsaken

           And a sliver of land, away out there.

Onward…

   Onward…

       On they rowed.

Into the storm tossed morning light,

   Into a furious fight.

The stalwart little canoe bends and twists,

   Moaning and groaning,

      Filling with water too overflowing

And then…

Down.

  Down.

    Down! Deep down below.

Placid were the depths, serene and quiet.

   No storm intruded, lives concluded but wait!

      The storm abates, quietly rolling away,

         Slipping onward, and onward still,

            Leaving the lake passive under the light of day.

Up to the surface,

   Up,

     Up,

       Up and away.

Their canoe, there waiting to carry them on,

   On to the island that lay not so very far away.

  And here their adventure is ending;

    Companions the three and a little canoe

       In terrible need of some mending.

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