Poetry

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Midnight crowned the opal crest
As satin lay 'pon autumn breast,
And all along the valley wide,
The seaman yearned for August Tide.
He thought of all the cities old,
Where banners waved in winter cold
When princes wailed for summer day,
And the moonshine wasn't far away.
And how the angels flew about,
Till candlelight was soon put out,
And dreaming of the ocean air,
Calm fell upon his silver hair.
But waiting for the owls flight,
And pounding heels against the night,
He stepped in toe with bottle black,
And hurried to the wooden rack.
Not rum nor rhyme would cure his ill,
So drank did he past sunset till,
The hammer pounded 'gainst the bone,
And fell he to the muddy stone.
But morning rose and there came news,
Of thirty weird from wayward crews,
So wandered he to galleon,
And sailed out to his home beyon'.

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