When the oaken barrel’s empty base,
Feeds the peep holes in your face
And grog is gone, the wine run dry
Perceived by a perceptive eye
The tumbling of the masts and sail
The clanking of metal,
Sounds of the whales
The gull that caws above the brine
The eyes on a pittance dine
When, blank sea returns a meagre smile
Sit on deck and think, a while
The storm at night;
An irritation
The constant cracking of the bows and
Their, unchaste vibrations
Make a sailor rather cross
He laughs
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