Date:         Fri, 1 Oct 1999 21:40:57 -0500
Reply-To:     Joel Walker <jwalker@URONRAMP.NET>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         Joel Walker <jwalker@URONRAMP.NET>
Subject:      FFFrydaye Foibles (sort like Follies) .. Part C
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yeah,i know. but i'm still bored. two more then i'll quit ...

Gunga Van
by Junkyard Keepling

You can talk of being stuck
As you're sleeping in your truck
In campgrounds with a water pipe that flows;
But when you're way out here,
'Neath the stars and sky so clear,
Well, it's something else again when traction goes.
Now in Arid-zona's clime,
Where I used to spend my time
On weekends in the desert off the road,
Of all them off-road crew
The finest one I knew
Was my old Volkswagen Camper, Gunga Van.
     He was "Van! Van! Van!
     "You can make it, yes, you can!
     "Just slip the clutch,
     "And stick it into Low!!
     "You blunt-nosed old Vee-Dub, Gunga Van."

The paint scheme that he had
Was really pretty bad,
And less than what he needed, that's for sure.
But though he lacked for paint,
In his engine, what there ain't
Were only things my money can't procure.
He was made of stronger stuff
Than that plastic modern fluff,
And if a goat could make it, so could he.
And I'd often see surprise
In the young kids' widened eyes
As we puttered past them, stuck as they could be!
     It was "Van! Van! Van!
     "You're not worth the sweat of Man!
     "Use your grip, and grab the dirt!
     "Don't sling it out behind!
     "You worn-out rolling junkyard, Gunga Van."

But the steel can't stand too much
Of the desert's tortured touch
A'fore the metal gives it up and has to go.
Yet, holed right through the case,
We still made it back to base,
A'bleeding as we crawled along dead slow.
The damage, though severe,
Looked worse out there than here;
Still it's a cost to bear when'er I can.
And though he's dead for now,
I'll build him back somehow,
And I'll ride again in hell with Gunga Van!
     Yes, Van! Van! Van!
     You faithful-hearted Gunga Van!
     Though I beat you and I flayed you,
     By the German steel that made you,
     You're a better bus than any, Gunga Van!

.................................
(last one. pay attention, kids .... there'll be a quiz on Monday :)

The Craven
By Edgar Allenwrench NoMoe

Once upon a midnight frozen,
As I drove the route I'd chosen,
Sitting at the wheel until my butt was sore,
Suddenly, there came a tapping,
Tapping, as if someone rapping,
Rapping gently at my sliding door.

"Tis the wind, " said I to me,
"Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Onward through the night I traveled
As my confidence unraveled,
Thinking of the noise, the ill it bode.
Was it just a stone in hubcap?
Perhaps an unrefastened gas cap?
Or something worse to break and leave me stranded on the road?

"Tis the wind," said I to me,
"Tis the wind, and nothing more."

In the headlights, snow was falling,
Still that tapping noise was calling,
Calling all my senses back from whence it came.
Perhaps the cv joints need greasing,
And newer boots would make it pleasing.
Yes, that's the ticket! That's the one to blame.

"Tis the joints," I sagely muttered,
"Tis the joints, and nothing more."

Then, as if it heard my speaking,
The noise was silent ... my ears still seeking
Could find no trace of what I'd heard before.
On I drove, in silent waiting,
Waiting for the noise, restating
In my mind the causes I had thought ... and more.

"Tis my mind," said I to me,
"Tis my mind, and nothing more."

Throughout the trip, no noise resounded,
But always now my thoughts are grounded
In the causes of that noise I heard before.
Like a shadow cast by sunlight,
My wraith-like fears will follow; and might
I, from out that shadow, e'er be lifted?
.... Nevermore.