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We sailed from Cartegena
The port of Inca gold
Followed the pirate Morgan
To Portobello where legends were told.
Then through the islands of San Blas
With their people (very tiny)
'Gators filling their dugout canoes
With scales brown, green and shiny.
Stopped at the Panama Yacht Club
Where we played guitars and sang,
Then across to the wide Pacific
Through the big canal we came.
We stopped at Cocos Island
And shot a wild pig to chew
Then on to the Galapagos,
A different kind of a zoo.
From there to the Marquesas
It took us a month and more
We were almost out of water
By the time we reached the shore
Down to the Tuamotos
With pearls iridescent and black
I donned all of my scuba gear
Dove deep, and brought some back
From Tahiti to Bora Bora
With the waters of blue and green
Meeting friends from other boats
Some since Trinidad unseen
We dropped our anchor in Suwarrow
With nary a sign of a town
Only three boats and GERONIMO
But lots of sharks around
On to Pago Pago
Where Charlie Tuna thrives
Then Apia where Aggie Grey
And Stevenson's ghosts reside
The ballet of whales in Tonga
(And, indeed, we saw more than a few)
Inspired us to join in the dancing
Wearing Leis and Pandanus too.
We sailed through the reefs of Fiji
Drinking Kava and sharing meals
The blessing most often offered:
"May you have water under you keel"
Now we've sailed to Opua,
In New Zealand's Bay of Isles,
Recalling the things we've seen this year
Simply wreathes our faces in smiles
The year is closing rapidly
And, with friends and family in mind,
We lift our mugs of Bounty Rum
For a toast to Auld Lang Syne
So though your course be at sea or ashore
And your miles be many or few
We send with this verse a piece of our hearts
And we pray the best for you
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Do I recall the night we met,
with both our hearts en feu?
As if I ever could forget,
dear Cordon Bleu!
A lover's moon was in the sky.
We dined alone, we twain.
Sole Veronique was partnered by
a still champagne.
You wore a bandeau on your hair
and, with the Coq au Vin,
produced a magnum, old and rare,
of Chambertin.
Château
d'Yquem, a last surprise,
was climax, crown and seal.
I might forget your lovely eyes,
but not that meal.
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In June, it must be very nice
to bask about a block of ice -
and watch the world go broiling by
under a hot and windless sky;
then turn aside and, sniffing, see
perennial mounds of shrimps for tea.
How genial, too, when fancying dab,
to slip one from ones' marble slab;
or, when the stars begin to twinkle,
to broach an unofficial winkle.
Or to descend, in morning slipper,
and not to have to buy a kipper.
This must be very pleasant, and
as pleasant, too, to understand,
when you have cod; are dining off it;
you're only eating so much profit.
Solacing thoughts like these, must stir
the musings of the fishmonger.
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I'm often asked, by plodding souls,
and men of crafty tongue,
what joy I take in draining bowls
and tippling all night long.
Now, though these cautious knaves I scorn,
for once I'll not disdain
to tell them why I sit 'til morn
and fill my glass again.
'Tis by the glow my bumper gives
life's picture's mellow made;
the fading light then brightly lives
and softly sinks the shade;
some happier tint still rises there,
with every drop I drain,
and that I think a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
My muse, too, when her wings are dry,
no frolic flight will take;
but round a bowl she'll dip and fly
like swallows round a lake.
Then if the nymph will have her share
before she'll bless her swain -
why that I think's a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
In life I've rung all changes too;
run every pleasure down;
tried all extremes of fancy through,
and lived with half the town.
For me, there's nothing new or rare,
'til wine deceives my brain;
and that I think's a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
Then many a lad I liked is dead
and many a lass grown old;
and as the lesson strikes my head
my weary heart grows cold,
but wine, awhile, drives off despair
nay, bids a hope remain -
and that I think's a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's
state
in these convulsive days,
I can't endure the ruined fate
my sober eye surveys;
but, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare,
I see the doom less plain -
and that I think's a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
I find, too, when I stint my glass
and sit with sober air,
I'm prosed by some dull, reasoning, ass
who treads the path of care;
or harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear
some coxcomb's fribbling strain -
and that I think's a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
Nay, don't we see love's fetters, too,
with different holds entwine?
While nowt but death can some undo,
there's some give way to wine.
With me, the lighter head I wear,
the lighter hangs the chain -
and that I think's a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
And now I'll tell, to end my song,
of what I most repine;
this cursed war, or right or wrong,
is war against all wine.
Nay port, they say, will soon be rare
as juice of France or Spain -
and that I think's a reason fair
to fill my glass again.
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