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There are not enough old sea chanteys.
To sing in the pubs near the docks.
To make an old salt, saved from the storm,
Forget all his mates who were lost.
They had led all the way from the harbour.
Set a line south from the heads.
Searched for fair winds to seaward,
Surged far ahead of the fleet.
Revelled in spinnaker flying,
Navigator trimming them neat.
All bursting with pride to the song of the wire,
Laughing in joy at their feat.
They had hauled her hard into the gale,
The moment the mast top was lost.
Frantic; they chopped the rigging away,
Casting the mess to the lee.
Spume stung their eyes; no sign of the
shore,
She leapt and lurched; and swung once more.
Yawing and broaching; sliding and twisting,
As the lookout swore; doggedly clung to his post.
The skipper choosing his moment,
Strained to bring her about.
Then screamed to the men washed over the side,
As the taffrail dipped way down.
The last wire was cut; she swung like a tub,
Then fled from the face of the gale.
Black combers broke, high over the stern,
Scouring from end to end.
They clung and they cursed, and prayed to a God,
Who's storm blotted out the sun.
And took away their horizon,
Waves looming over their heads
The compass lurched and wildly spun,
All but forgot what little it knew.
Where they should go, what they could do,
To shelter from God's wrath.
The crippled all gathered at Eden,
Mourning the many now lost.
Stories of tumbling rolling hulls,
Heroes and rescues and grief.
So sing those sad songs in the pubs near the docks.
Remember those shipmates now lost.
Ask why the soul of man still defies,
The sea and must pay the price.
Ignatius Writealot
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