A TRAVELLER'S TALE Yesterday I wrote a poem -- basically the way I remember the journey from Port Dickson (Malaya) to Bremen (Germany) in the summer of '63
Today I rewrote it as a song (i.e. I chopped about four syllables off each line, cut some lines out and added others in).
Style is _12STACF.STY (Fast Country Boogie w/ Pedal Steel)
RealTracks in style: ~520:Bass, Electric, Pop HalfNotes Ev 165
RealTracks in style: ~407:Guitar, Acoustic, Fingerpicking Ev 165
RealTracks in style: ~1120:Guitar, 12-String Acoustic, Strumming Ev 165
RealTracks in style: 619:Guitar, Resonator, Background Cowboy Ev 165
RealDrums in style:NashvilleEven8^2-a:Sidestick, HiHat , b:Snare, HiHat
The style suited my purpose right off the bat. Didn't need to change a thing.
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I'd spent some time in the tropics, about three years, maybe four
I board a bus to Seremban, then the train to Singapore
The locomotive's eager to display its awesome power
As we zoom past rubber plantations at nineteen miles an hour
About ten hours later, Johore Baru's in sight
And then we cross the Causeway – as the day gives way to night
The hotel's not worth mentioning, oh haste another day!
Cos our valiant Scottish freighter lies anchored in the bay
We climb aboard, the anchor's weighed, the crew then make it fast
Propellers thrashing water and we're under way at last
The sun sets over Sumatra as we steam along the Strait
Then a gong announces dinner's served, let's see what's on my plate
Saloon provides refreshment and entertainment too –
Third Officer plays accordion – while the Mate has a kazoo
Typhoon in the Indian Ocean where the ship's tossed like a cork
The promenade deck is empty now and we'd rather crawl than walk
Aden's dry and dusty, the shops are quite bazaar
Red Sea's a blazing furnace and now Suez ain't that far
A placid Mediterranean means that soup is served once more
There's no more crockery breaking, or food rolling on the floor
We're through the Strait of Gibraltar, the white-caps a-plenty now
A force-three scours the Atlantic just off the ship's port bow
The Channel stretches grey and limp on this September morn
At last, I see those White Cliffs – and the coast where I was born.
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Brian Raynor © 2024
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