THE WRATH OF THE JOLLY ROGER: An epic poem by Drake Raft.
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Ahoy! Pull up a deck chair, grab a coke, and watch us defend the deeper soul of this generation on our Spring Break '96 Cruise-- THE WRATH OF THE JOLLY ROGER.
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If halfway through the Captain's Epic Poem, THE WRATH OF THE JOLLY ROGER, ye realize that ye lack the mental dexterity to appreciate our Greatness, get out of yer deck chair, give somebody yer coke, walk over to the railing, and jump off me ship! Here's the plank-- send unsubscribe jollyroger to email@example.com. Go watch people sit on juice boxes on Friends, or something, and memorize yer teacher's pagan opinions so that ye can throw 'em back for yer miserable grade. I know yer type, and I disdain thee-- ye lack the perception to appreciate the genius of Beavis and Butthead, and yet ye bother taking notes in yer feminist theory courses. Aye Aye! I am fastidiously committed to serving the subtle spirits of the over 3,000 intellectual pirates aboard this frigate, and know ye that they demand nothing but Greatness in their literature! If I should ever fail in this noble endeavor, I would expect to be keelhauled by me ruthless crew!
THE WRATH OF THE JOLLY ROGER|
BY CAPTAIN DRAKE RAFT
Gather 'round for what's about to unfold,
Although it's happened, it's yet to be told:
I. REBEL ON CAPITOL HILL
Took to the streets, steel-toed boots on the run,|
I broke the postmodern physicist's law,
I mixed words with truth, 'til her heart was won,
Read the Bible, stood before God in awe.
On Constitution, midnight in DC,
I was hangin' out with We the People,
Incognito bureaucrats stalkin' me,
Young disciples of the gutted steeple.
Studying methods to kill the artist,
Superior to censorhip's silence,
Such are the ways of the postmodernist,
Aspiring to murder me audience.
Turn the mental corner, me mind's too quick,
Trained on the battle grounds of Moby Dick.
On Pennsylvania, my cap pulled low,|
Searchin' for where the pro-life pirates hide,
From the Cathedral a cold wind did blow,
The groom's waiting for his aborted bride.
Duck inside Planet Fred's to catch me breath,
A bum is selling roses at the rave,
Attached to condoms to save me from death,
While burying sweet romance in her grave.
I went to the DJ with a request,
To ask him to turn the music down low,
But the bouncer said he had headed West,
And where the volume was he didn't know.
He recognized me, I was out the door,
But not 'til I'd caught her eye, out on the floor.
|Plundered the Chapel, raided the college,|
Left the gothic spires standin' as decoys,
To attract ye young lovers of knowledge,
Once aboard, yer soul the Marxist destroys.
Aye aye, I signed aboard their ship to sail,
Like all youth, seekin' a story to tell,
Through His hand to the mast they drove the nail,
Out of Dad's sight, they set a course for hell.
Towards liberalism's swirling vortex,
Where condoms are traded for a child's soul,
They jade the young mind with relentless sex,
Add the conscienceless vote to their black hole.
And thus the NEH does propagate,
Teaching ye to hate me moral frigate.
|Drizzly November in me land-locked soul,|
As I sprinted along Capitol Hill,
Passed an old homeless man named rock'n roll,
I told him not to put me in his will.
And the wind ripped off the young budding leaves,
Like the pornagraphic executives,
Before ye can become one who believes,
They ensure that the vile in yer mind lives.
I'd tried so hard, but couldn't make the love last,
So I was running to the ocean blue,
The context for deep love was fadin' fast,
Somebody had to pirate the deeper True.
Rig a rainbowed sail, a resurrection,
This perilous voyage, truth's protection.
|And I've got no time for your pretensions,|
Better not catch you talkin' about me,
Watched you mix Shakespeare with your perversions,
Might be out-numbered, alone, but I'm free.
It's yer natural instinct to fear me mind,
Few can love the things greater than themselves,
But I do-- I'm humble before the wind,
And the Book that's growing dusty upon the shelves.
And you look my way, but you don't see me,
'Why'd you bother showing up at college?
The things you can't buy come to me for free,
Yer just waistin' yer time fakin' knowledge.
I'd sold me guitar 'cause I couldn't sing
The moral truths that words alone can bring.
|'Cause I'd heard Plato speakin' 'bout the soul,|
Reasoning that it must be eternal,
Jesus agreed today; his eternal role,
As faithful love battles the infernal.
And girl, honor's a tough thing to defend,
When they're preachin' that it doesn't exist,
We're just molecules, a means to an end,
And I've never known anyone I've kissed.
With long hair, singin', standin' on a stage,
I stood there hatin' it; it wasn't me,
Deep within was dyin' a subtler rage,
That intoxication couldn't set free.
I watched them watch me, all holdin' a drink,
And I knew I wanted to make them think.
|'Cause my little sister turned seventeen,|
She was gonna be a hit on the scene,
I'll always wait up until you get in,
Hey there little sister, where have ya been?
Don't you worry, brother, nothing's wrong,
Been with a friend, he helped me find a vein,
I finally understand that one cool song
It's 'bout freedom, and here I'm free from pain.
I remember I just left her alone,
Took off into the tempestuous night,
The lightning crashed as I ran to his home,
Kicked the door in to teach him wrong from right.
When I found him he was already dead,
Kurt finally found freedom in crimson red.
|The pedants were all administering,|
Being generous with me college loans,
Claiming redemption while funding killing,
The hollow horror the bulimic groans.
Liberalism's world turned upside down,
Makin' Captains out of Truth's detestors,
The conformers rule, the Creators drown,
Broadsided by barbarous professors.
I jumped ship afore the dervish vortex,
'Cause me eyes couldn't take the things they saw,
The feminist wanting to share her hex,
Beware when hideous Cain makes the law.
Gave Princeton me ballast gold, walked the plank,
Great God, not Shapiro, with words I'll thank.
II. THE CASTAWAY|
|I drifted alone in the wild blue void,|
The cold salty waves make the softest bed,
But to sleep in it is to be destroyed,
And ye can't dream without resting yer head.
And I couldn't rest, nor forget the crimes
I witnessed, committed against the Greats,
'Gainst the eternal pretty, all that rhymes,
The pagan enshrinement of all that Hates.
Ahoy Shapiro, ye made a mistake,
When ye lied while lookin' me in the eye,
For Truth ye said our money ye would take,
Ye took our money and let the Truth die.
Turned your head and gave my parents a line,
Denied with that smile this culture's decline.
|Abandoned by the elite editor,|
Deserted by the administrator,
So alone I drifted, no sign of shore,
I closed me eyes to find me Creator.
Ahoy! It was there that I sighted land,
Though it was but a vision in me mind,
Before ye find ground upon which to stand,
Deep within yourself the Truth ye must find.
Nothing in nothing and silence surrounds,
Buoyed by pure faith-- in darkness God is born,
That which leaves with bangs, or whimpering sounds,
Shall so too rise with the violence of morn.
Ye become that which ye seek, I seek Him,
Towards the morning star I began to swim.
|Me faith stood starkly against the silence,|
I would lift me pen for all to behold,
In the midst of silver screen porn and violence,
The rhyming truth would shine as bright as gold.
I had to make it back, back to DC,
To answer that divine call of duty,
To remind the People that they're yet free,
to find her with a subtle soul's beauty.
And when I crawled onto shore they kicked me,
Squadrons of resentniks all trained to hate,
Liberals virtuous by jealousy,
They all crowded 'round me to seal me fate.
Masses of mediocrity act as one,
Colleges filled with failed artist's venom.
|But there are these things I cannot let die,|
And there are those things that cannot be killed,
Though bureaucrats shall eternally try,
None shall deny for long what God has Willed.
Aye aye, it all begins with a vision,
Defending it is where we become men,
Like all else ye have to earn religion,
As they kicked me, I drew me rusty pen.
And slowly, slowly, I began to rise,
And the pagan pervert fainted in fear,
Made the mistake of lookin' in me eyes,
His meek mind faith's effulgent light did seer
I didn't feel like dying, not today,
I'd come to find her; I had come to say:
I know where the most perfect silence is,
| III. ROUNDING UP ME CREW|
|Waterlogged I crawled, up the sandy shore,|
Lay on me back beneath the milky way,
A billion billion stars, maybe more,
Closed me eyes and they all faded away.
And as I slept the ancient prophets played,
They performed a show upon me mind's stage,
His life for a lie Jesus wouldn't trade,
Noah prepared for the Lord's flowing rage.
As they tumbled through me, and I through them,
I realized that all were looking at me,
Standing on a ship, no one at the helm,
Moses said, "she's bound for eternity."
Today some mortal had to take the wheel,
On a moral course I would keep the keel.
|Startled to find meself upon the sand,|
I awoke, there was no ship to be seen,
But for the one that in me mind was planned,
They would be back soon, so I split the scene.
With a dream to defend you must lay low,
I scored some sunglasses off a skater,
She offered me a hit, but I didn't go,
"I'm higher down here, I'll check you later."
I waited 'til night fell, I hit the street,
You can't sail a frigate without a crew,
Set out lookin' for some pirates to meet,
Bold prophets lookin' to plunder the true.
'Found him at the Lincoln Memorial,
Out back, hammerin' on a great big hull.
|Ahoy! He said, seeing me bandanna,|
I'm Becket Knottingham, Bluebeard to ye,
I'm feared from Maine to Louisiana,
The best carpenter, both windward and lee.
And he took me hand and he drew his sword,
He drew the silver blade across me wrist,
Did the same to his, he said, "By the Lord,
Our souls have married, and our blood has kissed."
Aye aye then, won't ye let me lend a hand,
'Cause I say I know how to rig a sail,
And I say to me this liberal land,
Is naught but an intellectual jail.
My name is Drake Raft, the Avenger Red,
I've been called on behalf of the Great Dead.
|So we built the most tremendous frigate,|
Superior to the technology,
The noble WWW is but a gate,
That grants access to the spiritual sea.
Aye aye, she's crafted from the finest thought,
Her decks are lined with the Western Canon,
Prepared to fight fools who wish to be fought,
While postmodern ships the wise abandon.
Come morning the warship was nearly done,
Oak keel of reason, cedar planks of rhyme,
Fierce as a beast, reverent as a nun,
Designed to voyage across all of time.
She was a beaut, but she needed a rag,
So we sailed down town, lookin' for a flag.
|No one in me generation noticed,|
Their imagination locked to the ground,
Fired the canon, but their soul it just missed,
Nobody heard the vast silence resound.
Hoppin' the clubs, drinkin' themselves happy,
We were sailin' in way over their heads,
I jumped 'round when I felt Bluebeard tap me.
He was pointing on down towards Planet Fred's.
We descended, the cars looked like toys,
Towards an MG playin' the Rolling Stones,
But then I heard it was the Beastie Boys,
And saw he was flyin' the skull and bones.
"I'm Ahab, " he said, "the one everyone wants,
For startin' the Grungeservative Renaissance."
|We lowered the gangway, he drove aboard,|
And told us he had painted his car himself,
'Cause it's all that a poet could afford,
Who had to have all the books on his shelf.
And I asked them both, if they had seen her,
The girl with the crystal blue in her eyes,
Ahab said he hadn't, Bluebeard wasn't sure,
Might have just been the Carolina skies.
We sailed through the night, through eternity,
Drake read aloud Hamlet's soliloquy,
Ahab read Einstein's relativity,
And both were saying the same thing to me.
That there's something out there, Greater than man,
That me searchin' peers had been taught to ban.
|IV. BEYOND THE POSTMODERN FOG|
|Too many men living other men's lives,|
And killing those who strive to live their own,
Too many critics on board, the ship dives,
The resentniks want to take it all down.
Reducing romance to economics,
'Cause the pedant never felt it first hand,
Pernicious innuendoes, dervish tricks,
The romantic from the college is banned.
Bureaucracy breeds mediocrity,
Mediocrity returns the favor,
The source of truth exiled from the city,
Endless crucifixion of the Savior.
It spirals on, the Black Hole's mass augments,
Liberals cash in while culture ferments.
|For a penny they'll sell ya ten CD's,|
And these days they'll throw in a video,
And the free love's included, all for free,
You can do it all, with everyone you know.
But there's a vast price ye pay called honor,
When ye wake up with nothing to defend,
Guess I'm just sensitive to the horror,
When soon as we're done, it comes to an end.
Three times I tried, three times I thought I loved,
It's all uphill in this decayed context,
By silver screen phantoms yer pushed and shoved,
By the feminist the romance is hexed.
Aye aye, I shall be back for ye, my girl,
When I've slaughtered the pigs that trample the pearl.
|At the Mall, lookin' to buy sanctity,|
Thought ye economists figured it out,
For federal programs, DC's the city,
But all they're sellin' is cynicism's doubt.
And where's she goin' to buy a father?
Where am I gonna to purchase a promise?
With postmodernists selling character,
Preachin' the psychology of a kiss.
It's not much use holdin' onto the mast,
When the ship is sinkin' beneath yer feet,
As freedom without God will never last,
So it's over for ye liberal elite.
For these words dive deep, towards the sleeping soul,
Returning to me peers all that ye stole.
|And the morning sun shone revelation,|
We stood at the bow, and could not deny,
Beyond the postmodern fog's obfuscation,
Flew Gabriel in a crystal blue sky.
"Avast!" We cried, I had tears in me eyes,
To see me faith matched by a shared vision!
What the pagans tried to tell me were lies,
Making neon silicon religion.
"Ahoy! Turn this ship around," Ahab yelled,
"Back into the fog to tell the people,
All me peer's souls that the liberals felled,
We'll congregate on the World Wide Web's steeple!"
He whom Western science helped us neglect,
Western Science shall again resurrect.
V. THE ROGER'S VERDICT|
|The liberal political advantage,|
No such thing as truth, and they smoke the soul,
Not inspired from within like Rush the sage,
Off the teleprompter they read their role.
They twist it all to back one-another,
And the captainless vessel runs aground,
Where a lawyer's better than a mother,
And ye won't even know when ye have drowned.
Ah, but yet they're men, and they have values,
And those with a conscience they're quick to damn,
Heathens, they believe God's something ye use,
To bolster the moment's fundraising sham.
But God sees all this, and Great God does know,
The amoral heart of Hollywood's show.
|Ahoy! I had been dashed so many times,|
'Gainst the rocks of this felled culture's rubble,
Formed from the felled beacons of the Great's rhymes,
To augment the castaway poet's trouble.
Teaching girls to kill that which they conceive,
Preaching there's no need for Fathers to exist,
Words mean nothing, there's nothing to believe,
Because by deep love they'd never been kissed.
So they declare vengeance upon Great God,
The liberal firemen burning the books,
The subtle they ban, the skin they applaud,
Damned is the moral conscience amongst crooks.
If they find ye Believe, yer dead by dawn,
'Cause a free man never makes a good pawn.
|The faster they kill it, the more they cry,|
Funding the problems that they seek to solve,
Demanding welfare, they're praying a lie,
While men from fatherhood the saints absolve.
Illegitimacy's a necessity,
So they can justify their abortions,
Shapiro's dervish perspicacity,
Muddy the waters, promote distortions.
Then to help ye they'll just run up the debt,
Pedants who never created a thing,
And they even borrowed the tears they wept,
'Cause vast power to them it all does bring.
Government grants, intellectual welfare,
The wealth ye earn let them teach ye to share.
|And all the rape, the perversions and crimes,|
The abortions and every subterfuge,
The destruction of all beauty that rhymes,
With all the porn that the poor soul ye deluge.
And all the skeletons anorexic,
The children who never know their father,
The destructive, pedantical cynic,
Every Chancellor who doesn't bother.
The failed marriage, the childless professional,
The assault on sacred, eternal love,
The erosion of civilization's hull,
The fortunes made by denying God above.
And I'm wonderin' how I'm supposed to be free,
When they're funding it all with me money.
VI. THE WRATH OF THE JOLLY ROGER|
|On our way back we caught the risin' wind,|
Canvas billowin' in the Truth's screamin' gale,
Avast! It's some mighty matter, the mind,
To catch faith's wind it makes the perfect sail.
Polished our cutlasses, primed our pistols,
Going back to destroy the fog machines,
Heavily guarded by resentnik trolls,
And the notorious NEA queens.
But the fools would never know what hit them,
For in killing the Truth, they killed the word,
They themselves the liberals did condemn,
It's True-- the pen's mightier than the sword.
It grew placid that night, just like the dream,
Where reason's whisper's louder than a scream.
|I'm whisperin' vengeance, bury your head,|
And I'll axe your intellectual neck,
Take me out of context and you'll be dead,
The second ye finish swabbing me deck.
I'm whisperin' vengeance, take to the run,
And ye'll feel me harpoon kissing yer back,
Tell a lie about me, and ye'll be done,
As the earth 'neath yer feet begins to crack.
I'm whisperin' vengeance, apologize,
And ye'll feel me dagger deep in yer heart,
Retribution for spreading pagan lies,
For ever denying me wondrous art.
I've run out of cheeks, ready to forgive,
But not while those who seek to kill me yet live.
|And know ye that I have not come asking,|
I've come to tell ye the way it shall be,
Chancellors, editors, yer not me king,
For the WWW's set the poet free.
And I'm going to give ye something here,
I'm gonna give ye somethin' to wonder,
Thought to accompany yer risin' fear,
The hubris of the bureaucrat's blunder.
Why is it that these words are good enough,
For thousands of men striving to be true,
in this darkened world ye've filled with insipid fluff,
But yet they weren't good enough for you?
Ponder this, fake scholar, on yer way down,
As in yer insignificance ye drown.
|Me vengeance upon ye's this Ship's beauty,|
'Cause ye know I didn't build her for you,
Though pedants like ye shall sail her to sea,
Poets shall know they're corruptin' the true.
'Cause these words I write for the honest men,
To touch them and let them know I agree.
With leachin' teachers corrupting God's pen,
It takes it all, just tryin' to stay free.
Avast! I pledge me soul to me loyal crew,
Profound men of character, 'neath the Lord,
As ye serve Justice, so shall I serve you,
I'll stay the course for all the souls aboard.
Solemn now, gone forever's the first year,
But me faithful words shall always be here.
|Docked high on the Washington Monument,|
The thunderheads were beginning to break,
Intact was the world's greatest government,
It was something we couldn't let them take.
The view stole me breath, saw the Pacific,
Teenagers riggin' sails to literature,
Beyond the reach of the corporate cynic,
Readin' this, takin' pride in being pure.
Lincoln and Jefferson stood on their feet,
And Thomas nodded, began to applaud,
Tyrants one must perpetually defeat,
To preserve democracy under God.
Surrounded by freedom's unchartered sea,
lies man's moral responsibility.
|Sailed on down back to the streets of DC,|
Laid back, and they know I don't mess around,
Now when the pagan preachers mess with me,
I drop 'em in their tracks without a sound.
And I'm keepin' me eyes opened for ye,
Just on case I ever see ye again,
And if yer soul's subtle laugh is still free,
And if in yer heart ye remember when.
We were but two ships passin' in the night,
When eternal love wasn't allowed to exist,
Before the dawning of this morning's light,
When drivin' down East Capitol we kissed.
I say it falls short, far short of yer laugh,
These mere words and the Jolly Roger's Wrath.
READERS RESPOND: THANK YE THANK YE, YER ALL TOO KIND!
Date: Sun, 25 Feb 96 02:08:22 -0800
From: Heather Rhodes
Could I be more enthralled with your entire approach to poetry, conservative gen-xerism, etc....? I think not. There are too many feminist, in-your-face-forget-classics "professors" at my university. Frankly, I thought that's why I left the theatre department...and the radio-tv-film department...and the music department....apparently the creepy pseudo-artsiness of these people (both female and male, mind you) is following me relentlessly. It is such a nice change to see a page dedicated to more intellectually stimulating angles in poetry and other genres as well. No wonder it's one of the top 5% of web sites....hmmm Have a bloody good day at sea!
p.s. Do you accept original submissions?
THE CAPTAINS RESPONDS: Avast! Could we be more enthralled to have ye aboard? I think not. Send on yer original submissions, for we are creating a page of reader's material!
The latest installment of The Jolly Roger is your best effort effort to date. Me maties, it warms Redbeard's heart to see Russell Kirk quoted in your pages, he being a constant source of inspiration. Without the late, great Kirk, I would have missed the necessity of the moral imagination, which lies at the root of all great literature and the eternal human soul, for keeping order in that soul and in the commonwealth. It's a disgusting shame that the bloated Bloom of Yale with his Marxist deconstructionism gets so much attention from the darlings of the dominant media, such as Charlie Rose, while Kirk, along with T.S. Eliot, Paul Elmer More and Irving Babbitt, all defenders of the moral imagination, are read and known only by conservatives such as us. Arrr! At least, for now, at Stanford University, my home port, one can still find the Great Books and the works of Kirk in the library, there to be read free of the diabolical imagination and nay-saying of the bloated Bloom and his cronies. Well, me Avengers, keep the powder dry and the Western Canon primed and ready! We have the yellow, scurvy dogs on the run!
James "Captain Redbeard" Harris
The Stanford Harbor
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy me Stanford matie! Hey hey, ho ho, Western Culture's where we row!
Sir! Seaman Diogenes requests permission to address the Captain. Sir!
Sir! I am duty bound to place myself on report. Sir!
Sir! When I signed onto the Good Ship The Jolly Roger, I was not aware that crew members are required to be members of Generation X. Sir!
Sir! I am not a member of Generation X. Sir!
Sir! I am a member of The Lost Generation. Sir!
Sir! I submit to whatever discipline the Captain may impose. Sir!
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy! We're writing for all generations I say! From here on throughout eternity! Such is the manner of words inspired by
by Slit (alias Gerry Jackson)
What you say about leftwing cultural vandalism and the intellectual and What you say about leftwing cultural vandalism and the intellectual and cultural pretensions that accompany it goes, unfortunately, for Australia. The rot, I fear, is as deeply imbedded in this country as it is in yours. What else can one expect when, for example, our Prime Minister can stand up in Parliament and state, without the slightest evidence of humour, that "why only last night I read a book while listening to Mahler." This was said, by our cultural commissars, to reinforce his cultural superiority over his conservative critics. It's enough to drive a man to privacy. (By the way have you thought of becoming privateers for the cause of free thought and genuine of becoming privateers for the cause of free thought and genuine artistic creativity?)
I fear it is all too much for my stomach at times. However, I'm fortified by the knowledge that the canons of Western civilization never fail to blow away the leftwing barbarians -- when they're fired. Though they are always primed it is becoming increasingly rare to hear their roar. Impossible to spike, the left think they have found the perfect solution. Capture the fortifications and take out the gunners. In this they have had considerable success. One only has to read the drivel that passes for poetry; see the shapeless heaps of scrap metal that our intellectuals have the gall to call sculpture; witness the juvenile, and sometimes obscene, activities of our multimedia "artists" to realise how far the rot has spread. And all at the taxpayers' expense. This mob couldn't compete with monkeys in the market place. At least chimps are entertaining.
But all is not lost. Just as the end of the Middle Ages brought us the renaissance and the "age of discovery," in science as well as geography, the "age of the electron" will eventually break the creeping authoritarianism of the left. The cyber seas will do for us what the printing press did for Europe.
Your loyal shipmate Slit
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Great to have ye aboard, me matie from down-under! What it all comes down to is that they've got one hand in me pocket, and the other one's funding lesbian performance art!
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