The Moat: An Epic Poem For Eve About Love, Fish, Pirates, and…ummm, Moats.

Because I don’t want to fall out of the limelight (and what I mean by “limelight” is “two watt flashlight”) that this earmark on the internet affords me, I wanted to publish something in between parts one and two of the posts about imbibing in Deutschland. I live in what is normally a quiet forest and all of the pounding on my door, and the incessant screaming by both fans and detractors alike once I open the door, is growing tiresome:

 

“When are you going to again post something that’s marginally funny yet inconsequential and written like a hyper-active 5th grader”?! – Everyone

“Why don’t you write poems about love and scuba-diving dogs”?! – Resident Love-struck Golden Retriever

“Put on some pants”! – Peeping Tom

“Crunch, crunch”. – Squirrel glaring up at me while stuffing his cheeks

 

Well, I certainly can’t make everybody happy but I’ll get at least two out of four with this post. Possibly three if I set out a bowl of shelled walnuts.

So, without further ado, behold the best love poem (about moats) ever written!

 

The Moat: An Epic Poem For Eve About Love, Fish, Pirates, and, ummm….Moats.

By Jim Geren

 

We’ve been in Germany for over a year, it’s true,

So I wanted to write you a poem-note,

To tell you how much I love it here and such,

And to say that I want a house with a moat.

 

“A moat?” you might ask, and strange it may seem,

But I can tell you that it truly is not:

As nice as it is here (not to mention the beer),

Not only are there reasons, there’s a lot.

 

The first, of course, and it should seem quite plain,

Is because all of the best castles have one.

And since neighbors compete, they’ll say smug and discreet,

“We’re better: We have two moats; they have none”.

 

One more reason, mein Schatz, why a moat we must have,

Is because preserving wildlife is our wish.

In our moat we’ll raise trout so your father won’t pout

When the cranes again drain his pond of its fish.

 

Since we both love to often play pirates,

A case for one is practical you’ll see,

If we ever get a boat, we can sail it on our moat,

Instead of one week at year at Chiemsee.

 

One more argument for a river ‘round the house’,

Is for protection from salesmen and thieves.

Since Buster loves to swim, scuba gear we’ll give to him,

And post a sign, “Man-eating dog bites…and retrieves”.

 

But the REAL reason that we MUST have a moat,

Is for none of the reasons above;

You’re the prettiest girl in town, all the men will come ‘round,

And I won’t let ANYONE steal my love.

 

As I said toward the top, you are my treasure,

What’s most important – your warm embraces,

So if none of them this shuns, I’ll bring out the big guns,

And let our other yard-shark, Willy, lick their faces.

 

Crying and screaming, they’ll run away,

Their faces dripping with gross drool.

Then all alone at last, our clothes aside we will cast,

And we’ll go skinny dipping in our moat-pool.

 

Rats. I forgot about Peeping Tom. Perhaps it’s time to break with history and add ramparts in front of the moat instead of behind it. Since this is no longer the 14th century and I’m fairly certain that you can’t loose arrows at someone anymore just because they glimpsed her Highness’ bare backside, the ramparts will have water-gun openings instead of arrow slits. Sure, the history books tell us that most wars were started as territorial claims, but I’m positive that some were simply started due to some fussy noble’s overzealous sense of virtue. Now, I’m no Baron Von Jealouspants and am therefore unlikely to march on Berlin should anyone see my queen’s bottom. That being said, anyone actually caught peeping will endure the merciless super-soaking of their lives and, as a dastardly display of tyrannical power, I won’t even offer them a towel afterward. MUAHAHAHA!

Okay, yeah. I probably will. I’m just not the ruthless type. Once a liberal, always a liberal, I suppose. So in lieu of causing potentially lethal hypothermia to wayward perverts, I guess that I’ll just have to stick with the water guns. Since I’m probably required to lest I have my bleeding-heart card revoked by the SPD (German Social Democratic Party), I’ll even post a fair warning next to the sign reading, “Beware of Yard-Sharks”. Which will be conveniently located right next to the towel rack.

Irresistible (to me) side note: In German, shark is “Haifisch”, pronounced “Hi, Fish”. I can only assume that this word came about as it was the last one heard from the first unfortunate, yet very friendly, person who encountered a shark while swimming. Being a friendly sort who was unaware of obvious danger, this man was clearly drunk. Since he uttered ”Hi“ instead of ”Hallo“, he was also undoubtedly an English speaker and was therefore either Steve Irwin’s ancestor or American. All right, I know that the German language far precedes the founding of America, but that blatantly false speculation does serve as a neat little segueway back to part 2 of my tale about bemusedly besotted Bavarians and ambiguously alcoholic Americans, ”Keine Alcohol Ist Auch Keine Lösung“…

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