For me canoeing has always been a tenuous fine balance,
of multi-directional self-motivation upon some wobbly talents
where for all these many years that oft, oft sinking feeling
finally rose me up above to a bit of even-keeling.
But wouldn’t you know along might come some daft, daft inclination
that soon would have me gunnel-tripping down to old situation,
for I’d added all aboard crewmate fate had breed assigned
an Aqueous Achiever, my associate canine.
And so ensued new season where the critics found levity
as returned a basehart with his voyage to the bottom of the sea,
or river or lake, hell even at the shoreline,
Master and Commander and Worst Mate were all out-of-line.
So what must I do to patch my crew’s grand schism
that was tallying submersions like some great mass baptism
at Pentacostal convention in a Hotel 8 swimming pool?
Sometimes these paths for the righteous are stumbled onto by fool.
For fortuitously came to my fleet some new geometry,
and a hully-roller semi-arch was displaced with semi-vee
wherein a secondary moment’s notice of Worst Mate’s movements funny
gave Captain notice to right his ship and repose with the calm bunny.
Then since that day the fleet has grown, Worst Best Mates come and gone,
and as the Frank ones said here once we endeavor to “paddle on.”
So now some days should I feel so bold myself and landhound cur,
sardine ourselves into tight midships of Wenonah’s Voyager.
But, if the West Virginia Porch Hound (as my Duckhead associate McCrea defines his 68-pound mass) First Mate had his say, it’s a riparian voyage in a more commodius Mad River Explorer, wherein he can strike more poses than a Madonna vs. GaGa Vogue photo shoot. Why, we’ve even mastered, as I have a tendency to pole imprecise, the Tandem Aggressive Stepout. Okay, not “mastered,” but an 8 out of ten from the “bank” of judges.
