The good ship The Sweet Grievous Black Angel of Death docked at the Star Bar in Atlanta, and it turned out we had traveled many, many miles to enjoy an all Big Apple bill there. The Liquid Ghosts (#36 in your program, #1 in your hearts) warmed up the PA for The Heroin Sheiks, who tore up the joint with sonic renderings that would rub the fuzz off a peach. They related strange and savage tales of the port at New Orleans so we elected to postpone our pilgrimage to Memphis to go and see if there wasn’t still some good booty still to loot.
Hatches battened and every inch of canvas hung, Ricky’s buddy Richard waved from the dock and blew kisses as we set sail with Captain Shelby at the helm, yours truly having had more than his fair share of grog. With Ricky safely stowed in the bilge and myself manning the pumps, Capt. Col. Shelby navigated the reefs and shoals of the treacherous I-85 to bring us safely to port in Montgomery. A finer display of seamanship (easy, now) of which I have never heard tell. We ended up lashing Ricky to the mast for reasons all agreed were best left at sea, but otherwise fine sailing through stormy seas with an able swabby at the helm.
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.