Looking out over what he couldn’t see
he table-spoon-heaped salt into his tea.
Gull-shrieking Up the pool! and Come on you reds!
he dropped his load on plank-walkers below in their bunk-beds.
It meant so much more when we didn’t stand a chance
they said back in Dunkirk after France
as did Mr Crow, gazing up at his astrological star
in his feathers and tar, adding
We’ll never get to the bottom of this
’til we get to land and a little bit of bliss.
Never had a truer word been spoken
since their scabby anchor had hit port authorities and broken.
So, as Mr Crow in his nest
wondered what was for the best
scurvy took its toll on the crew
where nothing could be done except by those who knew what to do.
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Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
