The Stowaway
I could not post this until now,
The captain would have had a cow,
Upon the heave, surge and sway,
I was a lonely stowaway
Deep within the Viking Sky,
Where four gigantic engines lie,
I slept by day but did at night,
ascend to spy by pale moonlight
I mingled, mixed, what the heck,
Booze and broads on the Lido Deck,
They didn’t guard the buffet line,
So meals aboard were mighty fine
Sushi cold, the salads bore,
But, oh, the Lobster Thermidor,
Scoring drinks was kind of tricky,
Piña coladas made me sticky
In lowest hull, dim and cold,
Naught to do but cruise the hold,
Starboard to port, fore and aft,
I rambled ‘round the mighty craft
She’s young and long, rather beamy,
Like that girl whose eyes were dreamy,
She whispered, I'm in 1610,
Big spender had been fooled again
I like to read the latest news,
How giant engines turn the screws,
That push impressive weight at sea,
Pools, pianos, beds and me
So to the engine room I sneak,
Just, I swear, to take a peak,
To my surprise I did just catch,
The crew leave by a bulkhead hatch
Like dragons these big power plants,
Roared louder than six elephants,
Beasts that test the boatman’s law,
That warns of roll, pitch and yaw
I did perceive, it seemed to me,
A funny sound from Engine Three,
The pressure gauge was in the red,
Twice what all the others said
I could not let this go unvented,
By nature I’m service oriented,
If the crew did not return,
Well, it was a big concern
A plate etched in five languages,
Warned of what the danger is,
It said don’t ever ever ever,
Pull this big red shiny lever
No one was around to help,
Above the din I could not yelp,
So into action, yes I flew,
What else, really, could I do?
I did not think it any harm,
But then I heard the ship alarm,
From hatch and ladder, catwalk, stair,
Came footsteps to the whole affair
On the outside chance of trouble,
I beat it from there on the double,
Felt the shudder, heard the shout,
When all the engines did go out
The whole tub might have really blown,
Or so I feared; wish I’d known,
Captain, will, I surely hope
Not find me with his telescope
Guy D. Johnson is a writer and marketing communications professional. Previously an animation studio owner, daily newspaper editor, reporter and photographer, volunteer fireman, railroad bridge gang helper, FM radio station underling and cave guide. He has lived on farmland trusted to the sun and rain; atop a wooded hill; beside great rivers; upon an arid, high plateau; and at the subtropical coast of the Gulf of Mexico. For 20 years, he worked and wrote in New Orleans.