SALT DOG FLEAS
Oh we were a grand pack of old salt dogs cobbled together after a fearsome Nor-Easta
Blew us ashore with hardly a scratch, yet hungry, no famished for wicked clam chowda!
Dogs of the brine, along with our fleas; we “gang wayed” along to the Brotherhood of Thieves.
Months and a year of dusty waves at our backs, we opened our fists for grogs of beer.
Bar maid, eyes glazed, tired of something, where is our damn clam chowda?
Now performing we dogs brayed with spittle in concert with our brotherhood of fleas.
Cracklin’ voices together we rose salutin’ leviathan spoils.
A mighty roar sure enough to snuff flames from many lamp oils.
The Nor-Easta answered and walls fell before her gales, huzzah!
So wet and strong our salt fleas sure clung as chairs moistly flung,
Winds a-screamed our voices to scuttle as her skirts waved a stinging goodbye.
Easta’s tide inhaled pulling back to sea the wicked in tow and there followed our damn clam chowda!
- Mark R. Ellsworth