Forced Fun

The sales girls were cute

And the Budweiser was cheap in the package store.

The Cooper River Bridge was longer,

Folly Beach or Isle of Palms were longer

And the Atlantic surf breaking on the sand

Went on forever and stood up

Four or six feet easy

On a regular basis.

Our visits were regular, too

The summer the brass decided, service wide,

The enlisted ranks were out of shape

And instituted “Forced Fun.”

We, the seaman gang, enlisted the help

Of an amenable petty officer,

And signed up for swimming.

Every morning after checking in at the office

And the package store, we hit the beach,

Which was usually a metaphor for liberty,

But that summer the phrase was literal

And, technically, we were still on duty

As we lay there drinking Bud,

Ogling the tail walking by,

And working on the darkest tans of our lives.