Years ago I started a parody of that poem. Here's what I have so far, never before published:
I must go down to the
boat again, to the lonely chores and buy,
A pile of
parts for which I'll need a card to charge them by
And the knees crack and the back strains and the raw knuckles shaking,
And an oily mist upon my face, and another boat part breaking.
I must go down to the boat again, For the
bilge pump's running wild
Brought an urgent call from the dockmaster that may not be denied.
And all I ask is decent day without snow or spray flying,
And underway, not tied to the
dock with broken boat
parts, crying.
I must go down to the boat again, to the vagrant
gypsy life,
From the top of the
mast, to the lowest
bilge where I
lost my
fishing knife;
And all I get is a merry laugh from a passing fellow owner,
Who's been there too and knows too well it'll soon all be over.
[I think that last line was about the short
boating season here in
Maine, not life in general. But I suppose it works either way.]