PHOOEY ON BLUIE

J.H. Coon (Crossed the Bar)

 

A bit of doggerel from the big war......

You've read of the brave Russian Stalingrad Stand,

How the Axis was chased through the North African Sand.

But speaking of battles, we know there is none,

To compare with our winter at Bluie West One.

 

The mountains of Greenland rise into the sky,

As a field of the fjord where the ice drifts by.

The worst of it is with it's infinite trials,

There isn't a woman within one thousand miles.l

 

No, someone has mentioned that it isn't quite so,

Don't forget Henrietta the coy Eskimo.

But just a moment, it's not like it sounds,

For the Bluie C.O. says she lives out of bounds.

 

So what do we do for excitement and thrills?

We hunt for live glaciers, roll boulders down hills.

We listen to records and read books galore,

We sit through old movies we've seen twice before.

 

We circulate rumors mass produced in L8,

And argue that Texas is an abnormal state.

Says one guy, "Seattle's a place unsurpassed"

Another looks forward to life in the past.

 

Half way to London in late forty-two,

Wait eighteen Marauders for skies to turn blue.

It's said that, "they serve who just sit and wait"

And yet a war's lost with too little, too late.

 

Then who do we blame for causing this mess?

Not Adolf, not Herman, you might never guess,

It's the man who charts weather, drawing rings on a map,

Bringing lows into Greenland, high winds from the cap.

 

Each night as he craftily traces his lines,

He says, "It looks good, Reykjavik's sending nines."

So when we get up it's supposed to be clear,

But what do you know, it's closing in here.

 

Then get out the cards boys, and shake up the dice,

You're better off here then up on the ice.

When you are down on the cap they say, "just sit tight,"

Yet some guys sit still for the fortieth night.

 

Perhaps we're too critical, there are good features too,

But rule out the mess with it's eternal stew.

And cross off the permanent officers here,

The brief fleeting daylight, the shortage of beer.

 

Only hermits and llamas can do without sex,

So give us good weather and we'll fly on to "X."

To us just one place in the world really rates,

So let's finish the war and get back to the states.

 

From "This - *?#!@*? Was The Coast Guard" by Esther Stormer 1995 -- Reprinted by permission.

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