And stocked his car with beer and food –
in minutes he was in the mood.
As you may know, the Autobahn
brings out in vehicles the brawn.
No limits to the foot of lead
a big mistake – and you are dead.
After the Pass, the Autostrada
he overtook a coughing Lada,
then blasted into Italy
where winds are warm and thoughts are free.
The sun was setting in the West
as he had reached the golden crest
of what they call a sage-kissed dune
the sky brought out the Southern moon.
Being a clean and proper German
he liked to stay away from vermin,
and zippers are supposed to keep
the bugs away while you’re asleep.
But here, I must admit, the Kraut
(who stood quite tall and rather stout)
was very tight, a Scot at heart,
and, while his tent, a piece of art
looked colourful and also spacious,
thus overall quite efficacious,
the zipper had not been a test
of German craftsmen at their best.
He carried in his green wetskins
a giant box of safety pins.
They’d served to seal the quarters tight
though not as well as zippers might.
He had been driving at top speed
and was exhausted and in need
of restful and unfettered sleep.
He settled back and counted sheep.
He had, to lock up for the night
pulled in the tent flaps very tight.
Placed quickly safety pins of chrome
onto the front door of his home.
Now, German brewers have the key
to make the population pee.
The friend this story does describe
enroute had managed to imbibe
a dozen of the beer ‘ Blue Ribbon’,
a potent brew, and I’m not fibbin’.
His bladder made him sit up straight
where he considered now his fate.
Reluctantly, took one by one
the pins until they all were done.
Proceeded then (he was a German)
to put them back, in case of vermin.
Outside he found a friendly tree
to stand beneath and have a pee.
The night air was a trifle cool
mosquitoes hovered, quick and cruel.
He hurried to remove each pin
until at last he stumbled in.
As you can guess, (he was a teacher)
he now repeated the procedure.
And in the morning, close to noon
he lay inside, like a ballon.
The little bugs had found their way
into the tent where they could stay.
And eighty little grey mosquitoes
who are the insect world’s banditos,
had stung him into every pore
and later on had come for more.
The alcohol his skin had shed
did draw the mozzies to his bed.
I’ll tell you, when those buggers drink
you normally don’t sleep a wink.
But, being stout and kinesthetic
the beer had been an anesthetic,
not for the insects but the man
he now got up to find the can.
He figured since he was inside,
with mozzie-stung and itching hide
he’d skip the ritual of the pins
and grab instead one of the tins
He filled the tin which did attract
a million mozzies to the act.
Headfirst they dove into the clear
aroma-laden pee and beer.
I swear the Little Fellow grinned
as he now got his second wind.
Revenge was within easy reach
here on that warm Italian beach.
He drowned them all inside the yellow,
which spurted from the trusted fellow
and by the time that nightfall broke
he’d hired a Sicilian bloke,
who called himself Signore Skipper
and soon replaced the faulty zipper.
And now you know the outs and ins
of tents with eighty safety pins.
While improvising may appeal,
it’s got its own achilles heel.