Petty Officer’s Lounge

I understand that some of you are listening to your “inner donkey”

Beware, for all donkeys have their own voices

and are not necessarily in tune

with your requests.  As the Secretary of the Donkeys’ Union, I had a great deal of opportunity to talk

with the donkeys….wee Angus shares my doubts and warns that even inner donkeys might kick at unexpected times.  The CPO

I sat to write
and the  rubbery muse that Wee Angus found
spoke
but her memory was found in an old car museum  and her one ability was making lists and I was born into the age of the  family car:

A model T Ford that cradled my unremembered baby time.  Parents claimed that the only way to shut me up was to drive somewhere.

The trucks my father bought and called his RED-LINE.

My 36 Ford bought in 1942–the one that the drunk ran up against and the whole district heard me swear!

The 36 Ford we found on the Island unwashed but going fine in 1949–and how I taught my husband how to drive (reversal of roles, not recommended for he swore at me when he made a mistake)  Surprise:  I stayed married to the man.

The little blue Prefect that couldn’t find its way around the big Lake–and both children decided that their mother was fallible.

The beautiful, two tone, wide winged V8 that took us to the prairie, over the mountains, through valleys and wheat fields.

The little camper-bus with its pop top under which my small son slept after dropping his dirty socks on his sister and me.  What a wonderful summer we had that year on the farm with the
aunts and uncles.

The pick-up truck with its cab-over camper that got the respect of the service mechanics when I drove in!  Small women who drive big trucks get more attention.

The perfect station wagon that crossed the continent with the trailer and only once over heated, that climbed the mountains with ease.  Even the distance from British Columbia to New York seemed easy then..

A big  black Chev that spent its last days with my nephew’s dogs in the hunting north.

A medium sized, no personality, practical car that lasted for years while we lived in the city because I didn’t like to drive through town and my sisters-in-law thought I was brave enough to do anything–just because I did the driving.

And finally my dear little Cherie, bright red and beautiful that  I sold when I came to a distant land where the driving was all on the wrong side of the road and I thought I was too old–twenty years ago.

Wee Angus is in a bad temper
He’s been finding “that word again”
hidden in cupboards
resting on shelves
on the top bunks
under bottom bunks
cluttering up pockets
in the life boats
stowed under the carpet
and, above all, chugging through the ears
of all who listen to the ABC, the BBC
NBC, CBS until most passengers
as well as the crew
and almost everyone on board
with the exception of your Captain
and the CPO are tempted to use it.
Let it be known that the use of “fantastic” is henceforth
absolutely forbidden
unless referring to Anita Marie’s stories
fairy tales and “ither such”.
Angus has gathered all copies
and anyone who wishes to use
said word must report directly to me
and will have to prove correct usage.
As chief steward and petty officer I keep a very good thesaurus

on my desk and will provide you with any number of English

(or foreign for that matter) words meaning
excellent, pleasing, remarkable, splendid, ripping, admirable,
worthy, estimable, distinguished or even supreme.
In addition: Wee Angus is a good
tempered Scot but he threatens to bite a chunk out of any mere mortal
who dares to suggest that he is fantastic–
.

Wee Angus came up from the lower deck
dragging a great rubber girl size  balloon:
O Angus wherever did you fetch such a thing
and where will I put it?

I’m tired of ye’r moaning and groaning
y ‘here, aboot that wee muse
that has gang fra here—so I’ve fetched ye
anither.  She’s not verra pretty
and been in a cupboard since
the ship first sailed….but dinna tell me
this one will disappear.

But Angus, dear Angus, how will we deal
with a muse so deflated?

Ah, told ye, that is so simple
we tak the poor lassie around to the door
of a real estate agent, he’s hot air galore
as our captain could tell ye
she’s heard a lot more
o that lately.
Besides this one has a whole bag
o words in her write paw
and a strange sort o drum
in her left.  I don’t mind her
sleeping under the bed
as long as she lets you do the spoutin’.

So that is the reason, you’ll find a rubber muse
standing beside the writing machine
in the CPO’s cabin and a small black dog
hunting all over the ship
a stock of RAM.

Just to let you know that Wee Angus has located said muse but I am not sure I want her back:  She was found sleeping soundly under a bench on the Quarter Deck, snoring, a most unseemly way for a muse to sleep, and wearing silk pajamas, not supplied by me, and her feet dirty.  Has she been slumming in the bottom deck with the trolls?  Or have some of that other gang been leading her astray?  Angus and I are perfectly respectable servants of the Captain and someone is seems out to get us into strife.  Do I have to call in a couple of your dragons to keep this ridiculous situation in order?  All suggestions welcome.  The CPO–Angus sends his regards but reminds that his biscuit tin is down to two broken bits

Missing muse: Cronelogical is asking whether anyone on board has happened across her muse–apparently that deserter has gone into hiding. In this regard, Wee Angus who is totally lacking in imagination is no help whatsoever. Cronelogical is offering a very small poem, three lines, pictorial, to anyone who can locate said muse. As alter ego the CPO feels quite bereft and offers a vera big jug of the best whiskey to anyone who finds that muse. If you do happen to see her she can be netted with a few strands of blue silk. Be a little bit careful as she is a bad tempered wench and tends to steal pens and pencils as well as computer programs. My thanks in advance for your help. The CPO

Wee Angus reports further on his examination of the more remote spaces under bunks in cabins.  Be warned:  there are dragon seeds under several beds, someone has smuggled in a tiny sleeping cat;  he thinks he saw two fairy nests with tiny wings showing over the sides; several magic pencils are busy writing reports–be sure to put a stop to this as your thoughts may be read and reported.  Angus says that if you were careful to look under your own beds and tidy up he’d not have to do so much work.  Not only that but the oat cake tin has not been replenished.  Someone on this ship is slipping.  The CPO

The Chief Petty Officer has been on leave and thanks the Captain for looking after Wee Angus. I have sought out new stores and those who wish to pick up strange words, ultimate phrases, peculiar pedantries or other useful bits and pieces may request same during sixteen and eighteen hours on the upper deck. Wee Angus claims that some of you had a lot of fairy language, airy fairy dreams and feather pillow talk hidden in the cabins! He has tucked these away in the locker and will return same when he has finished his current supply of oat biscuits. The CPO

Notice from the Chief Petty Officer: Wee Angus and I have decided to stay aboard the Vulcania for a few days before starting on an adventure–truth is we both have to do moderate adventures due to the shortness of Wee Angus’ legs and my breath. I must warn you, Angus is doing a thorough examination of all cabins searching out the words you have left under beds, in closets and drawers. He is making a collection of swears, redundancies, miss spellings, grammaticals etc. and will be sorting them in the Captains Office. In addition if he finds words that are special, impressive, or magnificent he will put them aside for their owners or share them. As for me, I shall be sitting on deck chatting up the ravens for some of you will be bound to be calling for help. Signed CPO

Moonlight on the ocean
I sleep on deck
Wee Angus keeps my feet warm