Poetry & Bonaparte are not always Boss

  
It began like any other poem
same keyboard  
same sky from my window    
green tea growing cold in a mug    
phones on silent  
to better hear the voices in my head  
all the bitches and bastards  
doing their darndest  
to endear themselves into my heart    
But today I got pissed with the struggle to figure    
who would shout loudest  
and needed ruthless navigation    
through shark infested lines    
of throwaway junk to start  
So for once    
I told them all to shut the fuck up    
and scribbled this snippet    
to add to my sailing memoirs    
instead  
   
While I was admiring the gold braid on the spotless white uniform of the port captain at Ajaccio, he made certain I understood, that the English would never be forgiven for sending Napoleon into exile, even though that was centuries before we were born.    
I don't think he approved of my flip flops, three day stubble and mud caked denim shorts, because he tried to charge me an extra day's harbour fees. I was in his office, explaining how the 45 pounds CQR anchor had snuggled up to a rusty locomotive sunk deep in the Corsican mud, before the chain tied itself in knots, delaying our departure overnight. Naturally, I refused to pay the extra charge.  
The wayward train had been bombed during the war. It careered off its tracks and was thought too difficult to recover, so was left to rot in a watery grave. It was enough that the locals knew it was there and in 1943 when for once the English and French were fighting on the same side, 'tourists' in sailboats were unheard of.    
After a couple of unpleasant, extremely muddy dives and with the outstanding help of Jean Pierre from a nearby French yacht, the anchor finally came free, my faith in Anglo-French relations restored -- à votre santé, JP.  
But at the birthplace of Napoleon, history it seemed, appears determined to keep its grip rather firmly upon the present day.