The ships shift, almost collide. One salutes.
The other abides in the evening dusk. It seems
a certain Captain Pigeon has been piped aboard
the Nanny G—only to strut and chuck
with an infinite pomposity atop the masts.
An admiralty of feathers. Poop on the poop deck.
Now, think of this foolery in clear simple terms
and it goes away, nearly. The captain could have been
a Captain Hawk, or an Admiral Albatross, imagine that!
But he wasn’t, just a lowly fowl out of Queens, New York—
and he took control with too much fanfare.
Even Bert and Annie knew that.
Mutiny is caused by words without a plan.
Why, they even killed the ship’s only goat
in spite of Pigeon’s request to spare him.
When he commanded that the great goat must appear,
whispers of blasphemy echoed throughout the ship.
Bring the animal back, mates, bring him back to life.
Bert and Annie…O, they deplored the sight!
Staked, skin stretched, his feet and legs at impossible angles:
here is the goat king of the Nanny G
in all his majesty, splayed and displayed—
only his privates worth keeping.
Pull down his pants, lads, wiggle his frankfurter.
Do it with relish—because Bert and Annie are asleep now,
and they are crying, ‘perish, perish, perish’.