bring on the riff-raff

the halt and the lame
we’ll booze ’em and schmooze ’em
and hail ’em by name

our hobby’s as safe
as your Eas-Y-Boy chair
as exciting as Harley’s
with wind in your hair

no talk of dis-mastings
or the times we went in
or the miles of gear-schlepping
to sit without wind

we’ll find you a boat
at the autumn swap-meet
and you’ll outfit in style
from your helmet to cleat

then late in November
the tremens will hit
you’ll eyeball the puddles
in the thaws, have a fit.

but in frigid December:
your buddies will phone
your mate will roll over
and groan a laud groan

she’ll think of a hundred
things to be done
‘for she grabs at her pencil,
your off on the run

in time she will learn
your ice mistress holds sway:
with an ongoing date
from November to May

but you’re off with pulse racing
to the lake in a trice
Just as the yellow sun
touches the ice

Your buddies are setting up
quick as a cat
and if tell-tales are moving
there’ll be narry a chat.

You thought they were buddies
you’re a newby… so hey!
but here on the ice,
an addiction’s at bay

I’m a sailor, you tell yourself
i’ll do this or die
but the darned thing justs sits there
as others streak by

but soon you’ll be moving
by hook and by crook
doing things that could never
be learned from a book

and sometimes you’ll notice
the ice is so fair
you’ll exclaim, holy jaysus
we’re floating on air

and you’ll think of that springtime
when you strayed to the Ball
that was the beginning–
that cursed beginning–
that started it all