spoilers - none
rating - R for very rough, and repetitive, language 
keywords - none
summary - a drunken sailor talks about someone he doesn't like

archive - sure, just leave the name on
feedback - sure
disclaimer - anyone you recognise belongs to Carter, 1013 and Fox;
according to Louis Untermeyer's _Modern British Poetry_ (1920), "Lone
Dog" is by "Irene Rutherford McLeod, born August 21, 1891."

Author's Note:
All this talk about where things can be found has reminded me of this
critter, first appearing as an example within a critical post, to wit:
Before You Post That SongStory (Date: 09 Feb 1998 00:00:00 GMT).  So
let's put it under its own name, and gather the copyright info into one
place, as well.


Lone Fox,
by Lee Burwasser

"Hell, some people are just cat and dog, y'know?  Can't fuckin' stand
each other."

"But usually there's something . . ."

"Fuckin' cat an' dog.  Dog an' cat.  Heh.  Dog an' fox.  That's his
problem.  Sorry sonovabitch thinks he's a bitchin' Lone Wolf.  Lone
Fox.  Hadda memorise that stupid poem when I was a kid . . ."

The civilian held still and said nothing as the navy man tapped out a
cantering rhythm and sing-songed:

     I'm a lean dog, a keen dog, a wild dog and lone.
     I'm a rough dog, a tough dog, hunting on my own.
     I'm a mad dog, a bad dog, chasing silly sheep.
     I love to sit and bay at the moon, to keep fat souls from sleep.

"That's what he thinks he is.  Bullshit.  Like it's so bold and daring
to believe in flying saucers.  Half the fuckin' country believes in
flying saucers!  What's so brave about that?  An' accusing the
government of covering up some flying saucer crash half a century ago. 
Hell, people accuse the gov'r'ment of fielding assassination squads, an'
doing human experiments.  Cov'rin' up embezzlement and rape and anything
you name, so what's so brave about sayin' somebody covered up a flying
saucer?  Lotta crap.  He's a fake, is what he is." 

The navy man's glass was empty.  The civilian waved for another beer,
though his own was still over half full.  With a muttered, "Thanks," the
navy man started on the new one, tapping again on the bar in the same
cantering rhythm:

     I'll never be a lap dog, licking dirty feet.
     A sleek dog, a meek dog, cringing for my meat.
     Not for me the fireside, the well-filled plate,
     But shut door, and sharp stone, and kick and cuff and hate.

"An' that's all bullshit, too.  Nobody's shut the door on him.  That's
all crap.  Fuckin' Bureau resources for whatever fuckin' stunt he hares
off on.  Some loner.  Fireside? fuckin' sugar-daddy.  The other agents
throw stones -- he asks for it! -- but the muck-a-mucks keep his plate
filled.  He never fuckin' goes without."  The navy man studied the dregs
of his beer.  

When he went on, it was on a different topic.  "Wouldn' dare call her a 
bootlicker to her face, but I bet he thinks she's a lap dog, 'cause she
'sirs' their boss.  Like it would slice his fuckin' manhood to show
simple fuckin' respect.  Like it's so brave to dis people.  Like *she's*
not up to him, like she's sleek and meek and tame while he's mean and
lean and lone -- bullshit."

This time the civilian's beer was drained, too.  He waved for two more
while the navy man stumbled over the third verse.

     Not for me the other dogs running by my side.
     Some have run a short while, but none of them would bide.
     Mine is still the long trail, the hard trail, the best.
     Wide wind, and wild stars, and hunger of the quest.

"An' that's the biggest bullshit of all.  Who picks up after him?  Who
covers for him?  Shit, would he even be alive if she weren't there?  But
no, he has to make like nobody can keep up with him.  Like he's out on
the edge.  But when Lone Fox gets his tail in a crack, who does he howl
to?  Who comes to his rescue?  The lap dog, that's who.  The sleek,
meek, 'sir'-saying -- he *better* not call her a bootlicker.

"He better not hurt her again, either.  Lone Fox.  Cat an' dog.  Shit,
how do I remember that fuckin' *stupid* poem?"

"I had to memorise 'Paul Revere's Ride'.   They wouldn't let me do
'Casey at Bat'."

The navy man raised his beer.  "'But there's no joy in Mudville.'"

In solemn unison: "'Mighty Casey has *struck out*.'"



Lee Burwasser
*working stiff--don't blame me for policy*