Ode to the Baroona
Graceful as a hamstrung hippo,
Swifter than a ruptured duck,
Oh wallow on, you beauteous bathtub!
You'll get us up there yet, with luck.
Some ships are bright and glisten white,
Trimmed in gold or scarlet;
But you, Baroona, look just right -
You are no painted harlot.
You never rush us into work,
To toil away our lives,
Or speed us home again each night
To face our nagging wives.
Each trip is an adventure -
An overdose of pleasure -
With time to snooze, or maybe booze,
And revel in such leisure.
For boats may come and years may go
And hydrofoils are clever;
But you, you loveless, limping lump,
I fear will last forever.
And, in a hundred years or so,
When speed's beyond restriction,
You'll still be plodding down the bay -
A moving contradiction.
Built as you were in the closing years
Of a century noted for grace,
They gave you strength -
They gave you length -
But forgot to give you pace.
Long may you carry us to and from,
With your elephantine grace;
Though the hares rush away
In a cloud of spray,
'Tis the tortoise which wins the race.
Though your hull-planks work, and your engine's sick,
And your pumps are on the blink,
So far you've managed to keep us all
Out of the oily drink.
And as you plod your weary way
Across the the briny deep,
The workers with their trust in you
Can have a restful sleep.
So persue your creaking, bumbling path
In storm and cloud and sun;
No doubt you'll still be plodding on
When most of us are done.
So hail to you, you stumbling sow - (excuse my realism) -
There's nothing else to call you now
Except "Anachronism".
Author unknown
