Lord Tim

[KonradS]

mates or maties or something between the two
I can't quite tell which is the matier of you
my friends, my compadres, my cross-atlantic crew
I could not have chosen men finer than you
I'm rosing at the thought of sailing with you
you're a tenner I say
two five one and two

all aboard and away
the sine curves greet
punctured by finners
swimming in finely formed fleets
their vise-tight jaws could rend our sure ship in two
but rent we won't be
because that's not what whales do

send your letters to your mothers, your wives, and your friends
they will not see you before this mission ends
they will redden with pride at the sight of your officer's dress
the coat of arms, the deep navy blue fess
they can only quietly await your return
while you drift through the inns
sampling the finest of gins
in hopes of softening the spins
and putting out the sinner's dry urge

I've not seen a man secure against the abandoned depths
roiling seas have gulped down many a soaked secret
now they're the skeletons the sirens still sing
here are your earplugs,
young Odysseus,
don't let your head be the vent
for empty howls, tense tales, that sort of thing
keep them plugged to avoid such unneeded suffering

and one final gift
a small amulet
it's a nail on a string
slip it down through your fent
it's the nail from a ship that was firmly hell-bent
on capsizing

use it
when the night turns absinthe green