by John Poole (with profuse apologies to Wordsworth)
I row'd lonely as a crab
that scurries in the muddy seas,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of green Housatonic weeds;
Beside the docks, beneath the trees,
Floating, mocking me, in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
portending doom on my watery way,
They stretch, and say "your butt is mine"
Along the margin of the bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Grabbing my blades as they sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A rower could not complete his piece,
In such a hostile company.
I pulled -- and pulled -- but little thought
What unpleasantness these weeds to me had brought:
For oft, when on my side I lie
In coldest water and foulest mood,
They flash upon my inward eye
That confounded angst of splashing solitude,
And then my heart with dread exceeds
As I go swimming in those blasted weeds!
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