'The true Soldier fights not because he hates what is in front of him, but because He loves what is behind him.' -G. K. Chesterton

27 October 2013

Sunday Kipling

The finger is healing nicely. Thanks for all your comments. You guys are a bit of alright as I believe my friend ExBootneck would say.

The remodel continues though we did take some time off Friday to do a little shooting. I have a bit to do to get ready for the 3 Gun match in December. Ok, a lot.

It struck me the other day while I was working. No, not the nail gun. That was earlier. The Republicans are suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. They've been hostages by the liberal establishment for so long they've fallen in love with them. Maybe explains why I'm no longer a big R. Unnatural sex gives me hives.

Hey, it's Sunday. Time for some football, BBQ, good company and maybe a prayer or two. America and a lot of her sons and daughters could sure use them.

The Derelict


   I was the staunchest of our fleet
   Till the sea rose beneath my feet
Unheralded, in hatred past all measure.
   Into his pits he stamped my crew,
   Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw,
Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure.
   Man made me, and my will
   Is to my maker still,
Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer --
   Lifting forlorn to spy
   Trailed smoke along the sky,
Falling afraid lest any keel come near!
   Wrenched as the lips of thirst,
   Wried, dried, and split and burst,
Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining;
   And, jarred at every roll
   The gear that was my soul
Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining.
   For life that crammed me full,
   Gangs of the prying gull
That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches.
   For roar that dumbed the gale,
   My hawse-pipes' guttering wail,
Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches.
   Blind in the hot blue ring
   Through all my points I swing --
Swing and return to shift the sun anew.
   Blind in my well-known sky
   I hear the stars go by,
Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true.
   White on my wasted path
   Wave after wave in wrath
Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me.
   Flung forward, heaved aside,
   Witless and dazed I bide
The mercy of the comber that shall end me.
   North where the bergs careen,
   The spray of seas unseen
Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling.
   South where the corals breed,
   The footless, floating weed
Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling.
   I that was clean to run
   My race against the sun --
Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster;
   Whipped forth by night to meet
   My sister's careless feet,
And with a kiss betray her to my master.
   Man made me, and my will
   Is to my maker still --
To him and his, our peoples at their pier:
   Lifting in hope to spy
   Trailed smoke along the sky,
Falling afraid lest any keel come near!


Old NFO said...

Good points all, and prayers ARE needed for those on the pointy end...

Six said...

Amen NFO!