Plowing up to Cape May from Norfolk
we strike upon bonanza.
We deck our nets stretched to the max.
Ice holes filled, Neptune blessed,
we head south to sell the catch.
In Port of Spain (during Lent especially)
the market's good for fish that's salted,
and ours is fresh as fresh can get.
So party hardy, ready the gang plank.
Make way, ye fete-loving Calypso people .
However, the drunk we hang,
before we even pass the lighthouse is epic,
and slumbers us like sloths in a hammock.
thus, instead of the Antilles, we find ourselves
in waters off Valdivia, which is to say southern Chile.
Where in Scriptures does it forbid,
fishermen from partaking of their fish?
Thus, scallops gathered in the Atlantic,
we devour along with the last of ship's provision
What sorry losers are we. We are, we arrr!
Back again, here where we started.
Cape May at our starboard... out of luck,
no babes on board, low on liquor,
no fishes biting, and nothing in the trawls
but candy wrappers.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment