The sun rose up bright on a calm battle site…
The Spirit sitting quiet at dock.
It seemed a good bet that the ship would be set
For the boarding at eleven o’clock.
But a call had come in, that the computer again,
Had erred, and the count was not right;
And though no one could tell, it might very well
Mean the number, this day, might be light.
Since the count wasn’t maxed, the defenders relaxed,
A mistake that they soon would regret,
For out on the pier, nine busses appeared,
And off, over five hundred stepped.
Now, at 90 degrees, with nary a breeze
And humidity at 90 as well,
The mob wanted in, though the clock said just ten.
Their attack was hard to repel.
A hostess stood bold, but finally was told
To move or be speared by a cane.
The crowd made a surge, past the hostess, discouraged,
And up on the gangway they came.
In through the doors the aged mass poured
Sitting wherever they could
In singles and pairs, they stumbled downstairs
And made a mad rush for the food.
Armed with their trays, the waiters obeyed
But their efforts were largely preempted.
Cantankerous men, and blue haired old hens
Were a devilish force to contend with.
Two thousand rolls for 500 souls
Didn’t feed all that were there.
The cake ran out, too, and almost on cue
The A. C. quit blowing cold air.
The staff became down, as defeat they seemed bound,
When a very strange thing did they see.
A line of weak bladders lined up on the ladders
A result of large volumes of tea.
The ship became quiet, no longer a riot,
As the strike force became indisposed.
The only thing heard was an occasional word
About wiping wet hands on one’s clothes.
The waiters regrouped, and pulled off a coup
By grabbing the mics to perform,
And by singing some tunes for the wrinkled old prunes,
A peaceful new treaty was born.
The day had been saved; the old critics raved,
And hobbled off after the cruise.
No letters to Coe, or to Richard D. O.
Thank God ’cause they so hate bad news.
