Poetry Corner

Ode to my Giant Foam Cowboy Hat

Giant Hat
You are so Big
So Orange
So Foamy
You sit there in my closet
Mocking me
Why do you torment me so

Do you not understand the joy I feel when I wear you
Those that stare at me can sense my power
BUT THEY CANNOT HAVE MY HAT
For it is not mine to give

'Ello luv, 'ow's the leg?

Rossaroni was tired. His hand hurt and he needed a break. He stretched his arms over his head and looked around the room. The furnishings weren't exactly what the Admiral would call first rate, with a simple bed, a few chairs, and the writing desk he was sitting at, but he needed a room in town, and the Hydra's Lair was as good as any other place. It would have taken several hours each way to make the round trip to the Keepe and back. And the Planetary Sovereign was in the yard getting an incredibly expensive refit-slash-upgrade. Plus, Schlamazel the Butcher owed him for all the extra sacking he did on the way to Toronaga's. And back. And a little more a few weeks later.

The Admiral was in town at the behest of the Crown to pen a treaty with some filthy barbarian principality that the governement wanted to exploit and usurp. He was just getting to the good bit, where the government reserved the right to come to the aid of endangered commercial interests in the principality. He wondered just how long it would take after ratification of the treaty before an "incident" occured, or was manufactured. But the wording had to be just right, and he was a bit fagged right now, and needed some refreshment.

He headed out of his room and down the stairs into the tavern. As he walked gingerly down the stairs, gingerly because his trick knee was acting up again, he noticed that, as there were no ships in port right now, it was filled with only the regualrs, and therefore not very rowdy.

"'Ello luv, 'ow's the leg?" purred Edith the barmaid ("Purred?!" Belay that! I mean cackled, for she was far from comely.)

The Admiral sat at the bar. "It's acting up a bit today, Edith. A pint of bitter, please. And some Edam"

"Coming right up, your grace," she said as she finished cleaning the glass in her hand (and by cleaning, I mean she was working out a piece of grime by spitting on it). "You know, you ought to get that gammy leg looked at, before you end up wiv' one of them peg legs. Ha, ha. A proper pirate you'd be then, wouldn't you?"

Hmm, that hit a little too close to home.

"You know, some doctoring is just what I had in mind. As a matter of fact, that's why I stopped by Lady Marzipan's estate today. You see, I am well aware of the appalling state of medical care and technology in this day and age, and have no desire to have some drunken lout who calls himself a surgeon, but is actually no better than some ancient barber, hack away at my body parts. So I've hatched a plan to travel to the future to get better medical care."

Edith put the brew in front of the Admiral. "Oh, that's a good 'un, Mr. Admiral. Hoo, hoo, you can sure spin a tale, says I."

Rossaroni continued, "So I get to Marzipan's place and get straight to the point, for she doesn't put up with dilly-dallying. I asked if I could borrow her Q Device and go to the future to get my leg looked at. So, long story short, she agrees (after some haggling and certain concessions on my part) and says if I come back tomorrow, she will send me to the 21st century to a first rate sawbones."

Edith opened her mouth as if trying to form some coherent statement, as unlikely as a coherent statement from her might be.

"I know what you're thinking," the Admiral said, "why the 21st century? Why not the 22nd century, or the 30th, or 10,000th? Well, Marzipan got quite serious at this point, looked me straight in the eyes with that deadly intensity that only she can muster, and said 'If you want to use the Q Device you will never ask me about the 22nd century again. Never.' And if you saw the way she was looking at me, you'd have agreed that my knee's health, and probably that of the rest of me, depended on keeping mum about that particular subject."

" 'Ave you been nippin' at the ale all evening, your grace? Because that is a bunch of nonsensical blathering, as far as I can tell," replied Edith

"Perhaps, perhaps," said Rossaroni, not really having the energy to explain Q Device theory to a backwater tavern barkeep. "But, thanks for the pint, Edith. It was just the pick me up I needed. I'll now get back to figuring out how enslaving some wogs can increase the share price for John Company by half a pence. Cheerio!"

Cheese?

Edam.

creamy, delicious, slightly buttery flavor.

Edam cheese has a very mild taste, slightly salty or nutty and almost no smell when compared to other cheeses. It also has a significantly lower fat content than many other traditional cheeses being approximately 28 percent with an average protein content of 25 percent. Modern Edam is quite soft compared to other cheeses, such as Cheddar, due to its low fat content.

In a word...superb

Milk?

(A Mighty Wizard depicted above)

Woody, Rossaroni and Little Lord Turnipsaroy had arrived at their usual gathering spot beneath the ancient oak near the ruined stables beside the rotted remains of the old church spire nearby the mystic stone slabs, remnants of an even more ancient race, the druids. As was there custom, one of the trio was to tell a true story of the distant past in hopes of inspiring that night's adventure.

Rossaroni, the most garrulous, befitting his ancestry, spun a tale for the other two as follows:

“There before us stands the house of the great wizard Crestoloon, Your Majesty,” said the pimple faced page.

“Excellent.”

Sitting at the top the hill was a rather smallish, pink split-level. The king had expected something more along the lines of an imposing castle, or even a menacing hovel.

“I suppose even wizards have to keep with the times,” the king muttered, and he led his party of courtiers and knights to the door. The door was lime green, and ornately carved with a relief of a wizard battling creatures that looked to be half-man, half-wolverine, with some bat thrown in.

“Ugh,” groaned Jeremy the page boy, rolling his eyes at the overdone door. The king ignored him and squinted at the handwritten sign taped to the door.

“Doorbell broken, knock loudly.” He grasped the beard of the brass demon head that served as the knocker and gave three hard raps of the door. Knock-Knock-Knock

The door swung open to reveal an old man with a long white beard and a bald head. He was dressed in a purple robe with white stars and matching slippers that curved up at the toes to a point.

“What’s up Kingy?” The wizard’s thick eyebrows rose with his greeting.

“I have come seeking assistance,” intoned the king in his most royal voice. “My kingdom is beset by the hordes of the evil Count Krishnack; only with your aid can we defeat him. Mind if we step in?”

“Well, uh, now is not really the best time,” said Crestoloon, glancing back into his home. “Perhaps some other time.” And with that he attempted to shut the door, but the king’s foot was in the way.

“Nonsense, Crestoloon,” said the king in rather a haughty tone. “Now is the only time.” The king, who was shorter but far wider that the old wizard, pushed through into the house, followed closely by Jeremy the page boy, leaving the knights and courtiers in the front yard.

They strode to the living room, followed closely by Crestoloon, who was shuffling along, all the while wringing his hands.

“We need to buckle down and put our heads together if we want to defeat, OH!” The king had cut himself off in midsentence, for there sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee halfway to his lips was evil Count Krishnack!

“Well, this is awkward,” muttered Crestoloon.


Woody spoke, pausing a minute in awe after the story was concluded, "Do you really think that this could be true and that old musty keepe on the outside of town belonged to the mighty wizard Crestoloon? Maybe we'll find the secret to defeating the town bullies there!"

"Or maybe not and maybe, just maybe Rossaroni is full of baloney as per usual!" exclaimed Little Lord Turnipsaroy, "Remember the last time he had us off on a wild goose chase after Wyverns!"

I Don't Like Reggae .... I Love It!

Lord Rocksteady stumbled out of the "Drawn and Quartered" Pub at closing time that chilly London night. An unusual early September snowfall had given the entirely seedy neighborhood a cloak of respectability.

There he came face to face with Cecil Tophat III.

He was amazed at what he saw.

At-sa Mighty-a Spicy Meat-a-ball Mrs Rossaroni! A Lance and Dirk Adventure

It was a clean, brightly lit room, illuminated by Saint-themed candles. Saint Rita, Saint Agnes and St. Louis cast their watchful, hand-painted eyes across the small dining room where a young Italian lad sat carefully eating his penne carbonara.

"Your carbonara is simply delicious!" the boy exclaimed through an unruly mop of shiny black hair that tended to hang over his face.

"Why-a thank-a you, little one" the Dowager replied, patting the boy on his head. "And, a-aftera dinner, I getta you da nice-a candy, maybe da Tree Musketeers Bar - they seem-a safe - I giva them to da trick-or-treaters and they-a no die."

"Why that's certainly a positive sign" Rossaroni thought for a moment, a bit incredulous even at his age, and again thanked his dowager aunt.

He continued. "Aunt Rossaroni, I truly enjoyed this dinner but, I really must head back to the orphanage now. The mistress simply insists we are safely tucked in no later than 9 o'clock of the evening .. on the dot! Which reminds me could I borrow five bob til next Tuesday?"

He batted his large brown eyes, extra cute street ragamuffin style.

"Oh, my of course you can, here you can-a have-a 10 bob because you such-a good-a eater!"

With that, the young Rossaroni made his way down the long, treacherous flight of apartment stairs in the ancient brownstone edifice located on the wrong side of the Shrewsbury tracks. Five minutes later, he was in the foyer where he bade farewell to the concierge who wasn't really the concierge. The concierge had died so his wife was now the concierge.

Be that as it may, Rossaroni planned a detour this fine evening. He was to meet his best chums: from the good side of the tracks it was the young Lord Turnips and from Kraut-Town, it was young Woody with his funny accent and even more amusing lederhosen. Woody and Turnips had gotten it into their heads to explore the forbidden ruins of the truly ancient keepe on the outskirts of town. He would share with them the details of his evening feast. Hopefully Woody would still have some leftover leberkase. And, with any luck, Turnips would have gotten over his obsession with railway track gauge standardization.

Everything was going to plan as long as Cecil Tophat III and his gang of cretins didn't show up! Or even worse, the Dunkirk Boys Massive.

Rocksteady at Court

"Frederick Rocksteady Rushing, Pater familias of 26 children and loving husband to your lovely child bride, after your countless good acts in service to Lord Charles Townshend, also known as Lord . . . 'Turnips', and your singularly brilliant repair of the royal household's wireless network, and your finding the glitch in the software of the Q device and recovering Prince Albert from near certain death, I offer the thanks of the British Empire, its peoples, the royal titles and lands of your beloved Kingston, and this gift card for your family to stay for free at Legoland."

Rocksteady Rushing was gobsmacked at his fortune but he realized that the reason he fled Jamaica in the first place was the utter lawlessness of the place. He started to interrupt the royal personage, as he opened his mouth Prime Minister Disraeli shot him a withering look which bade him quiet. And given Disraeli's desire to cut Rockstady off before he made a spectacle, the wily minister passed a note to the Queen.

"And since I have installed you as Viscount Kingston you shall require the services of some of the Empire's finest troops to bring order to your fair island. I offer you the services of 3 battalions of the Royal Gurkha Rifles, 5 battalions of the Royal Horse Artillery, 3 battalions of the Queens Own Rifles, and the 22nd Armored Brigade."

Minister Disraeli made a small sound and whispered to her that the latter unit did not yet exist.

The queen mildly miffed that her whim had been contravened stiffened and continued.

"We shall substitute the 22nd Armored Brigade with the Royal Dragoon Guards which I believe are just back from the Sudan. As soon as those lads are rested and ready we will provide them to you."

Freddie Rushing could not believe his luck to have come all the way from the worst cesspool in Jamaica to be here in Windsor being received by the royal court and soon to be installed as the power in his homeland. He owed it all to being good at math. To having taken those tough classes, having worked complicated theorems in the dirt in the back of his shanty, and having stumbled across Lord Turnips as he surveyed his Jamaican land holdings that day when Lord Turnips could not figure out how to provide a 20% tip on restaurant check. That simple service to the great Lord Turnips had turned around the lives of all 29 members of his family.

"your humble servant ma am. Would the i gaan fe bed i fe continue massagin' your feet?"