A Carrie Retrospective
- Thread starter champagne1982
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champagne1982
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JCSTREET
Literotica Guru
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Found a couple of verses of a way back poem of yours, C, while doing a trip dwn memory lane
I'd rather be a vivid
puddle of wax
clear, finished
and ready for a new
form
sculpt me into curves
and hollows with secret
textures waiting
to be discovered
What can I say? it is quite beautiful - simple and lilting
I'd rather be a vivid
puddle of wax
clear, finished
and ready for a new
form
sculpt me into curves
and hollows with secret
textures waiting
to be discovered
What can I say? it is quite beautiful - simple and lilting
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
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The Leaves Are Late
This year snow has been the featured terrain
on every front lawn far longer than green grass
I imagine the dandeloins are eager to unfurl from rest
and feed the bees those first precious sips of nectar
How can we save a planet when winter refuses
to let go? Does doing "our part" mean wearing
that well worn sweater another day? I can't find
the answers from history since this spring is unique
Cities south of here have experienced this weather,
this broken pattern of the record number of days
at sub-freezing temperatures and now are just barely
slipping from winter's icy grip to skid and spiral free
The soil lies dry and dusty beneath the ice as every drop
of snow melt and rain runs down into the rivers, swollen
from late spring accumulation and persistent cloud
that the fields reflect back the heat, staying dormant
Chill and brisk are words for March, not April. Instead
I think I'll be saying that about the wind in May. It's cold,
I'm cranky and my budget doesn't want to stretch to buy
another month of winter fuel at summer prices.
Why didn't we do something 48 years ago when activism
was fresh and demonstration was productive. How
did these intervening decades manage to pull the teeth
out of the EPA's and Clean Air Act's mouths?
What would Senator Gaylord Nelson say?
This year snow has been the featured terrain
on every front lawn far longer than green grass
I imagine the dandeloins are eager to unfurl from rest
and feed the bees those first precious sips of nectar
How can we save a planet when winter refuses
to let go? Does doing "our part" mean wearing
that well worn sweater another day? I can't find
the answers from history since this spring is unique
Cities south of here have experienced this weather,
this broken pattern of the record number of days
at sub-freezing temperatures and now are just barely
slipping from winter's icy grip to skid and spiral free
The soil lies dry and dusty beneath the ice as every drop
of snow melt and rain runs down into the rivers, swollen
from late spring accumulation and persistent cloud
that the fields reflect back the heat, staying dormant
Chill and brisk are words for March, not April. Instead
I think I'll be saying that about the wind in May. It's cold,
I'm cranky and my budget doesn't want to stretch to buy
another month of winter fuel at summer prices.
Why didn't we do something 48 years ago when activism
was fresh and demonstration was productive. How
did these intervening decades manage to pull the teeth
out of the EPA's and Clean Air Act's mouths?
What would Senator Gaylord Nelson say?
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
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You Could Have Done Much Better
There you were, a holo
of helplessness pleading
an aging hero to rise
into a role set aside
to watch over the male.
Ahh, the male, the man,
I'd have thought women
would have progressed
beyond the constraints
of the nonsense spouted
here, in a galaxy
far, far away from Alderan
You, Leia, were a senator;
a ruler of a World!
And yet you yield
to a "space pirate". Really!?
I mean what-the-hell, Princess?
Some free-booter smuggler
steals the heart of a leader
in a galactic rebellion
and you let him sweep
you away and out of authority.
He will never be a politician,
he will never understand
that you are more than a womb
for his children to incubate
within. Be careful, Leia,
they'll make you give
your crown to that blue-
glowing phallic symbol waving
twin of yours and then mute
your style with motherhood.
Ahhh, Princess Leia, meant
to be more yet content
in a timeless routine,
an important duty,
a relentless responsibility.
It becomes you but really,
you should have been the Queen.
There you were, a holo
of helplessness pleading
an aging hero to rise
into a role set aside
to watch over the male.
Ahh, the male, the man,
I'd have thought women
would have progressed
beyond the constraints
of the nonsense spouted
here, in a galaxy
far, far away from Alderan
You, Leia, were a senator;
a ruler of a World!
And yet you yield
to a "space pirate". Really!?
I mean what-the-hell, Princess?
Some free-booter smuggler
steals the heart of a leader
in a galactic rebellion
and you let him sweep
you away and out of authority.
He will never be a politician,
he will never understand
that you are more than a womb
for his children to incubate
within. Be careful, Leia,
they'll make you give
your crown to that blue-
glowing phallic symbol waving
twin of yours and then mute
your style with motherhood.
Ahhh, Princess Leia, meant
to be more yet content
in a timeless routine,
an important duty,
a relentless responsibility.
It becomes you but really,
you should have been the Queen.
williamesquire
Experienced
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- 34
I seem to find your writing evocative. I find I want to write something after reading your poetry 
I like the line to 'mute your style with motherhood', says alot. I suppose that motherhood would also bring wisdom???
I like the line to 'mute your style with motherhood', says alot. I suppose that motherhood would also bring wisdom???
champagne1982
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I suspect wisdom comes with menopause. When we no longer need to be bothered with the whole impregnation thing then we can afford to be wise and say, "I told you so."I seem to find your writing evocative. I find I want to write something after reading your poetry
I like the line to 'mute your style with motherhood', says alot. I suppose that motherhood would also bring wisdom???
I wrote this poem just after the release of The Phantom Menace. I wasn't impressed with Princess Amidala and her wishy-washy neediness, and I think even though the next movies tried to say differently, the sexualization of Leia squished any hopes of a strong feminine ruler rocking the Empire. FFS, even though Leia had the same blood and genes as her brother, it seems that that whole hysteria of woman still kept the light sabre out of her hands. Thank goodness Rey has given me cause for hope that the powerful feminine is a paladin warrior when needed.
And that is a very nice compliment to my writing, I am glad it gives you pause and makes you itchy to put words out.
champagne1982
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Crows Of Winter
The far side of autumn is drawn in notes of gray.
Morning seems to close the drapes on the colours
of the dawn. Flannel sheets of sky, pulled up, over
the reluctant day, settle close against its skin.
Bright songs of springtime mating have drifed south
with flower's bloom, to leave the tired year dying.
Dressed in somber suits of muted light and winter's
clucking worry, now caws the black murder of crows.
The mourners gather round the hearth to recollect
that summer day when those shuttered eyes filled
with the colours of the sails that slid across
the lake, now stilled and reflecting darker sights.
Autumn passes slowly and sheds her bright cloak
as death throes shake her limbs. Each moan of wind
heard through the walls brings another chill
and she draws the flannel up beneath her chin.
She turns to slip away to a dreamland of summer,
far away from the crows of winter and the pain
brought with the cold of night and frost, that waits
over the lake beneath the colours of the sails.
October 17, 2006
The far side of autumn is drawn in notes of gray.
Morning seems to close the drapes on the colours
of the dawn. Flannel sheets of sky, pulled up, over
the reluctant day, settle close against its skin.
Bright songs of springtime mating have drifed south
with flower's bloom, to leave the tired year dying.
Dressed in somber suits of muted light and winter's
clucking worry, now caws the black murder of crows.
The mourners gather round the hearth to recollect
that summer day when those shuttered eyes filled
with the colours of the sails that slid across
the lake, now stilled and reflecting darker sights.
Autumn passes slowly and sheds her bright cloak
as death throes shake her limbs. Each moan of wind
heard through the walls brings another chill
and she draws the flannel up beneath her chin.
She turns to slip away to a dreamland of summer,
far away from the crows of winter and the pain
brought with the cold of night and frost, that waits
over the lake beneath the colours of the sails.
October 17, 2006
champagne1982
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Inside This Shadow
Look beyond the the horizon
to a shadowed window. Fly
through and rest a while,
beside my pillowed head.
Dark bird, fly to me
and calm my beleaguered
heart. These dreams
do not refresh my soul.
Summer land and honeyed
scent of warm skin; sun
against my cheeks. Whisper
me no more, I cannot go.
What would we leave behind,
dark bird? That call, once
answered, would lead over
winter fields. What then?
What then if there is no
more to dream? Summer land
would fade to autumn
and darken to winter snow.
We've only dreams. Dark bird,
fly to me as I sleep and rest
with me inside this shadowed
room next to my pillowed head.
February 5, 2006
Look beyond the the horizon
to a shadowed window. Fly
through and rest a while,
beside my pillowed head.
Dark bird, fly to me
and calm my beleaguered
heart. These dreams
do not refresh my soul.
Summer land and honeyed
scent of warm skin; sun
against my cheeks. Whisper
me no more, I cannot go.
What would we leave behind,
dark bird? That call, once
answered, would lead over
winter fields. What then?
What then if there is no
more to dream? Summer land
would fade to autumn
and darken to winter snow.
We've only dreams. Dark bird,
fly to me as I sleep and rest
with me inside this shadowed
room next to my pillowed head.
February 5, 2006
champagne1982
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Waiting For The Crows
I watch the clownish swagger as they approach;
only the foolish leave their dregs in soft bags
waiting for the crows.
They hop upon the green-black carcasses and pick
at one home's leavings as the winter frost rest on it,
waiting for the crows.
The tall streetlamp on the corner glimmers as a beacon
in the winter early morning, somehow, a perfect throne
waiting for the crows.
I find myself in mid-October, watching on those Tuesday mornings
as the garbage goes to the curb, in overstuffed soft bags
waiting for the crows.
November 18, 2005
I watch the clownish swagger as they approach;
only the foolish leave their dregs in soft bags
waiting for the crows.
They hop upon the green-black carcasses and pick
at one home's leavings as the winter frost rest on it,
waiting for the crows.
The tall streetlamp on the corner glimmers as a beacon
in the winter early morning, somehow, a perfect throne
waiting for the crows.
I find myself in mid-October, watching on those Tuesday mornings
as the garbage goes to the curb, in overstuffed soft bags
waiting for the crows.
November 18, 2005
champagne1982
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Appalachian Synesthesia
The french horn shakes my sides and climbs
my arms to my shoulders in a palm glide
over my skin.
A flute, with it's haunting hollow
whistle, shakes my flesh and then the ring
of a triangle strike taps my nipple
and lifts those minuscule follicles
into a bumpy exclamation of joy.
Then you tease every inch of my breast
with strings.
The bass note of drum and cello
disturbs the stability of my bones
and when you introduce violin
and viola, I must close my eyes
against the tears welling free
around the orbs of my sight,
and beg silence from the visual
cortex blinding me to sensation.
With blood singing through my carotid
arteries and heating up my skull,
the hair stirs on my nape and releases
waves of endorphin and oxytocin.
Too soon, the pleasure of the melody
woven by an orchestra makes me smile
and cry, beyond conscious control
such that I can barely restrain
my voice from lifting in song.
So here I sit in the forests that shade
the feet of the ancient slopes the majesty
of youth faded smooth. Time has gentled
high spires into rounded and treed rises.
Now I am content to know and feel the sound
of fresh water flowing; satisfying my thirst
with the beauty of an Appalachian Spring.
(Inspired while listening to the Boston Symphony conducted by composer Aaron Copeland play his Appalachian Spring)
The french horn shakes my sides and climbs
my arms to my shoulders in a palm glide
over my skin.
A flute, with it's haunting hollow
whistle, shakes my flesh and then the ring
of a triangle strike taps my nipple
and lifts those minuscule follicles
into a bumpy exclamation of joy.
Then you tease every inch of my breast
with strings.
The bass note of drum and cello
disturbs the stability of my bones
and when you introduce violin
and viola, I must close my eyes
against the tears welling free
around the orbs of my sight,
and beg silence from the visual
cortex blinding me to sensation.
With blood singing through my carotid
arteries and heating up my skull,
the hair stirs on my nape and releases
waves of endorphin and oxytocin.
Too soon, the pleasure of the melody
woven by an orchestra makes me smile
and cry, beyond conscious control
such that I can barely restrain
my voice from lifting in song.
So here I sit in the forests that shade
the feet of the ancient slopes the majesty
of youth faded smooth. Time has gentled
high spires into rounded and treed rises.
Now I am content to know and feel the sound
of fresh water flowing; satisfying my thirst
with the beauty of an Appalachian Spring.
(Inspired while listening to the Boston Symphony conducted by composer Aaron Copeland play his Appalachian Spring)
Last edited:
I don't even need the music to feel the ripple of flesh, as goose bumps raise the flesh and awe is found in the intonations of balance and harmony.
champagne1982
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Oh thank you! Do have a listen though. The entire piece is beautiful but the allegra portion is what sent me poetry
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
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Summer Children
You stood in the door yard
and yelled our names chronologically,
eldest to youngest. The chickens,
scratching in the pen, the hard packed dirt
path to the stable and the geese hissing
a warning to the unwary, who come
empty-handed to check for eggs.
These colour my youth like the brilliant
reds of geraniums and the sugary scent
of lilac bushes all planted strategically.
to thwart the breeze from dropping
the stink of pig pen and outhouse
on the window sill looking out over
the back pasture. An acre of freedom
for the calf, the ponies and the dogs.
We ran freely out there, too!
Unimpeded by adult disapproval,
our shirts tied around our heads
to keep the blackflies from tangling
in our hair, sticks carried like javelins
as we beat a path through the nettles
and finally hid from the sun inside
the shade of the hazelnut bushes
beside the deep, cool spring well.
We were like what our whitewashed
lives painted our aboriginal neighbours
to be. Riding appaloosa ponies, raiding
trading posts and stealing guns, women
and whiskey. Why? We didn't know,
but that's how it's done in movies.
The excitement of going to the lake
without adult supervision, the burden
of responsibility falling on the oldest
sibling and the big Alsatian dog
to shepherd us and keep us safe.
The terror of not getting home
in time when we heard the car horn
blasting the same pattern as the party
line phone ring; one long, two short.
A switch across the back of bare thigh
was the burning impetus to arrive
breathless, damp from our swim,
and hungry for garden vegetables,
fresh bread, cow's milk and ham.
I remember curling up like puppies
in the middle of a big double bed,
all the girls in one, all the boys
in the bunk beds, sleeping the rest
of the truly played out child
You stood in the door yard
and yelled our names chronologically,
eldest to youngest. The chickens,
scratching in the pen, the hard packed dirt
path to the stable and the geese hissing
a warning to the unwary, who come
empty-handed to check for eggs.
These colour my youth like the brilliant
reds of geraniums and the sugary scent
of lilac bushes all planted strategically.
to thwart the breeze from dropping
the stink of pig pen and outhouse
on the window sill looking out over
the back pasture. An acre of freedom
for the calf, the ponies and the dogs.
We ran freely out there, too!
Unimpeded by adult disapproval,
our shirts tied around our heads
to keep the blackflies from tangling
in our hair, sticks carried like javelins
as we beat a path through the nettles
and finally hid from the sun inside
the shade of the hazelnut bushes
beside the deep, cool spring well.
We were like what our whitewashed
lives painted our aboriginal neighbours
to be. Riding appaloosa ponies, raiding
trading posts and stealing guns, women
and whiskey. Why? We didn't know,
but that's how it's done in movies.
The excitement of going to the lake
without adult supervision, the burden
of responsibility falling on the oldest
sibling and the big Alsatian dog
to shepherd us and keep us safe.
The terror of not getting home
in time when we heard the car horn
blasting the same pattern as the party
line phone ring; one long, two short.
A switch across the back of bare thigh
was the burning impetus to arrive
breathless, damp from our swim,
and hungry for garden vegetables,
fresh bread, cow's milk and ham.
I remember curling up like puppies
in the middle of a big double bed,
all the girls in one, all the boys
in the bunk beds, sleeping the rest
of the truly played out child
HarryHill
Hairy fucker
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- Jul 13, 2012
- Posts
- 14,861
Oh my.
Im too working class ingrained for such beauty, i'll take some acdc a shot of tequila and a soft body to raise goosebumps
Allegra......are you swearing at me
Agreed
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
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- Aug 31, 2002
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Thank you. True story and damn that switch was not applied lightly either. It's a mark of how tired and how worried our gran was I think. But it was always tempered with a bit of chocolate on shopping day.
A pui a pui.. (see the poem sonate ad libitum for violin for more cuss words.)Im too working class ingrained for such beauty, i'll take some acdc a shot of tequila and a soft body to raise goosebumps
Allegra......are you swearing at me
Thank you Harry and todski.
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
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Bespoken
What is it that tells that words spoken
aloud are more permanent,
more ponderous and meaningful
than a thought?
No matter how profound a notion
can be, or how deeply felt its affect
on all those listening and feeling,
every syllable of what is spoke,
of what is heard
can move a mountain, drain a sea,
flatten a forest.
Be sure, what is heard is as fleeting
as an echo but captured,
the noise can be prodded each
and every time the word
is said.
Being sung is, at times, more effective,
more long-lasting and stirring,
than even the richest
timber of speech, the melody
captures our imagination and carries
what is spoken outward from thought,
memory, and dream, to become
the universe.
The word has been spoke,
the voice heard, and has driven
a nail into the listening mind
every time it enters
into reality.
So it has been, will,
and onward,
driving; regardless how painful
realities, spoken honesty lives on.
What is it that tells that words spoken
aloud are more permanent,
more ponderous and meaningful
than a thought?
No matter how profound a notion
can be, or how deeply felt its affect
on all those listening and feeling,
every syllable of what is spoke,
of what is heard
can move a mountain, drain a sea,
flatten a forest.
Be sure, what is heard is as fleeting
as an echo but captured,
the noise can be prodded each
and every time the word
is said.
Being sung is, at times, more effective,
more long-lasting and stirring,
than even the richest
timber of speech, the melody
captures our imagination and carries
what is spoken outward from thought,
memory, and dream, to become
the universe.
The word has been spoke,
the voice heard, and has driven
a nail into the listening mind
every time it enters
into reality.
So it has been, will,
and onward,
driving; regardless how painful
realities, spoken honesty lives on.
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2002
- Posts
- 7,671
The Moon Has A Dark Side
And what are we to think
when told that there are aliens
to your placid face planting
sensors and equipment
out of the sight of Earthbound
observers and the sun?
Their wheels and gears wander
settling antennae and beacons
in your dusty seas and razored
ridges. Debris rolling down
craters edge to create a modified
view of what this world
means to man and alien alike.
When work is done in shadow
doubts are all that grows. Without
the sunlight we call lifegiver, then how
can any fruitful thing take root?
You keep the historical evidence
in undisturbed tread and tracks
so unbelieving humans can one day,
trace proof that yes, we visited
Glowing lunar plains reveal the trails
hope leaves on a time-tracked face
here in the limned winter night as he lifts
his eyes up to the clarity of frost-cleansed air.
We marvel that even a finger drawn down
a lover's cheek can draw a spark in the freeze
dried atmosphere that you, dear moon,
cannot claim to know
And what are we to think
when told that there are aliens
to your placid face planting
sensors and equipment
out of the sight of Earthbound
observers and the sun?
Their wheels and gears wander
settling antennae and beacons
in your dusty seas and razored
ridges. Debris rolling down
craters edge to create a modified
view of what this world
means to man and alien alike.
When work is done in shadow
doubts are all that grows. Without
the sunlight we call lifegiver, then how
can any fruitful thing take root?
You keep the historical evidence
in undisturbed tread and tracks
so unbelieving humans can one day,
trace proof that yes, we visited
Glowing lunar plains reveal the trails
hope leaves on a time-tracked face
here in the limned winter night as he lifts
his eyes up to the clarity of frost-cleansed air.
We marvel that even a finger drawn down
a lover's cheek can draw a spark in the freeze
dried atmosphere that you, dear moon,
cannot claim to know
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
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- Aug 31, 2002
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In Which The Dog Devolves In Her Dream
Yesterday the groomer trimmed
each nail, making certain
to dip each one into mercuric acid
and then stood you in a basin
perfuming you, conditioning
your coat until she transformed
you from a rough and tumble pet
into a sleek and pampered ornament
Now, you sprawl on the rug in front
of the glass doors enclosing
a gas fireplace, the warm air
filling your nose with the floral
volatiles sprayed onto your fur,
rousing your pads into sweat
your autonomic function still
wolfish, tongue lolling out over
your teeth and dripping saliva
You stand, stretching and curling
your tongue in a yawn and making
the bored creaking sound of whines
as you move back to circle and spin
down onto that spot beside mistress.
Your eyelids open slightly
but the nictating remnant
covers part of your lens.
Whimpers escape as you start
to twitch, your feet jerking,
muscles spasm into contractions
as you dream race toward
a feral ancestor's hunt, the baying
yell of a calling pack as it circles
the frightened deer stops you
in your tracks and you release
your hot stream of urine,
in your dream, you yip and bark
along with them. They are lupine.
You want that health, freedom,
and exuberance each one
feels as they growl and snap
at the fetters and dart away
from the antlers and sharp
hooves of the stag fighting
off too many, keeping the pack busy
while on the shadowed edge
of the snowy mantled
glade, the doe and fawn
slip slowly, farther away
and out of the sensory
range of the hunters.
You are lupine
Yesterday the groomer trimmed
each nail, making certain
to dip each one into mercuric acid
and then stood you in a basin
perfuming you, conditioning
your coat until she transformed
you from a rough and tumble pet
into a sleek and pampered ornament
Now, you sprawl on the rug in front
of the glass doors enclosing
a gas fireplace, the warm air
filling your nose with the floral
volatiles sprayed onto your fur,
rousing your pads into sweat
your autonomic function still
wolfish, tongue lolling out over
your teeth and dripping saliva
You stand, stretching and curling
your tongue in a yawn and making
the bored creaking sound of whines
as you move back to circle and spin
down onto that spot beside mistress.
Your eyelids open slightly
but the nictating remnant
covers part of your lens.
Whimpers escape as you start
to twitch, your feet jerking,
muscles spasm into contractions
as you dream race toward
a feral ancestor's hunt, the baying
yell of a calling pack as it circles
the frightened deer stops you
in your tracks and you release
your hot stream of urine,
in your dream, you yip and bark
along with them. They are lupine.
You want that health, freedom,
and exuberance each one
feels as they growl and snap
at the fetters and dart away
from the antlers and sharp
hooves of the stag fighting
off too many, keeping the pack busy
while on the shadowed edge
of the snowy mantled
glade, the doe and fawn
slip slowly, farther away
and out of the sensory
range of the hunters.
You are lupine
Last edited:
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
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- Aug 31, 2002
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- 7,671
Dowry
Your beauty outshines
those diamonds in your ears,
the twinkle of the stars are nothing
to see when I compare
them to your eyes. Your hair,
lush and silken, is the envy
of a glorious stallion, tossing
back his head in a vain effort
to be more lovely than you.
What price to pay for a companion,
soft and quiescent in my arms
for all my days? Surely, my life
will end before yours; I could not
bear to live on without you. Your
breath is essential to my ignition.
I can't burn without you, my flame
will gutter and die, the oxygen
used up and bound with carbon,
no more to heat my heart or light
my path.
Let me hand my gold to your mother,
she loses her helpmate today and hands
you over to me.
I will give my flocks to your father,
he has been waiting for the wealth
of you to find purchase.
I will share laughter with your brother
and wipe the tears from the eyes
of your sister. Gone is their companion.
I have won a treasure, your smile
pierces my heart with the beauty
of it. I long for the delicacy
of your touch on my skin
to soothe the pain of cold
against my arms when you
are not with me. I have won
a most marvellous jewel whose kiss
touches my lips with ruby red and draws
my blood through my centre to where
you wait. I have won.
Your beauty outshines
those diamonds in your ears,
the twinkle of the stars are nothing
to see when I compare
them to your eyes. Your hair,
lush and silken, is the envy
of a glorious stallion, tossing
back his head in a vain effort
to be more lovely than you.
What price to pay for a companion,
soft and quiescent in my arms
for all my days? Surely, my life
will end before yours; I could not
bear to live on without you. Your
breath is essential to my ignition.
I can't burn without you, my flame
will gutter and die, the oxygen
used up and bound with carbon,
no more to heat my heart or light
my path.
Let me hand my gold to your mother,
she loses her helpmate today and hands
you over to me.
I will give my flocks to your father,
he has been waiting for the wealth
of you to find purchase.
I will share laughter with your brother
and wipe the tears from the eyes
of your sister. Gone is their companion.
I have won a treasure, your smile
pierces my heart with the beauty
of it. I long for the delicacy
of your touch on my skin
to soothe the pain of cold
against my arms when you
are not with me. I have won
a most marvellous jewel whose kiss
touches my lips with ruby red and draws
my blood through my centre to where
you wait. I have won.
champagne1982
Dangerous Liaison
- Joined
- Aug 31, 2002
- Posts
- 7,671
The Man Who Moiled For Gold
(with apologies to Robert Service)
The banker's life in the midnight sun
chaffed under your cuffs and collars
and you watched another Klondike run
the black ink stained gold earned dollars
as the paddle steamer clawed
at the current blend at the confluence of the Yukon flow
the yearning deep down in your heart
made you pick up stakes and go
Up through the valley where stories wait
right there beside the stream.
In the sluice run and in blackened pans
you wash out your bit of spec and gleam.
A loaf of sourdough down in the town
would cost you a day of digging
But then the fever takes and the fall
goes by and the miner's tweak the rigging
Get gravity and the water flow
do the heavy lifting for ye
and when winter comes and trees are felled
the fires will burn in hell
Then the assayer with his silver scale
will speak your doom this day
Farewell cheechako you did not last
the dark season of the year
A sourdough you'll never be,
so go on back south of here.
Mining's not for every man and the Klondike
will not relent,
the midnight sun is three months long
but so is the noontide night.
A fortune spent earns a fortnight's rent
down in Gertie's town,
So drown yourself in rotgut brew
and forget those golden wights
That sparkle seen within the dirt
is the shine of foolish pyrite.
(with apologies to Robert Service)
The banker's life in the midnight sun
chaffed under your cuffs and collars
and you watched another Klondike run
the black ink stained gold earned dollars
as the paddle steamer clawed
at the current blend at the confluence of the Yukon flow
the yearning deep down in your heart
made you pick up stakes and go
Up through the valley where stories wait
right there beside the stream.
In the sluice run and in blackened pans
you wash out your bit of spec and gleam.
A loaf of sourdough down in the town
would cost you a day of digging
But then the fever takes and the fall
goes by and the miner's tweak the rigging
Get gravity and the water flow
do the heavy lifting for ye
and when winter comes and trees are felled
the fires will burn in hell
Then the assayer with his silver scale
will speak your doom this day
Farewell cheechako you did not last
the dark season of the year
A sourdough you'll never be,
so go on back south of here.
Mining's not for every man and the Klondike
will not relent,
the midnight sun is three months long
but so is the noontide night.
A fortune spent earns a fortnight's rent
down in Gertie's town,
So drown yourself in rotgut brew
and forget those golden wights
That sparkle seen within the dirt
is the shine of foolish pyrite.
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