Lo and behold, the Flying Dutchman
Comes whispering the sordid mourns of lonely mermen.
Her black sails flutter in a windless breeze,
Break my sandbar with little ease.
Alone, at the bow, stands a boatswain,
His long-dead eyes staring at my cayenne
The masts silhouette against a pallid frieze,
St. Elmo’s burn into the horizon’s crease
Familiarity lurks in her obsidian hull,
The murderous stench of her revenant haul.
Wave after wave, I send rolling forth,
Poseidon seems asleep underneath the froth.
Dread fills and echoes in my skull,
As she begins her ravenous cull.
Turns my sea into a scarlet broth,
Cuts the waves as a satin cloth.
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