In the wires the wind is witching, moaning; ship is groaning,
a squall on Gumee.
A lengthy scow that went with gents who ride the tides and curse
in verse that’s called “shanty.”
That’s when a long tub carries
a load of rocks that up was picked on a dock slurry-slicked;
ship ain’t been licked this century.
She’ll soon be shattered. . .tatter gales that batter, whale
on navigation—worse than seven seas.

There’s a gent who would sure serve them lunch,
but the wrenching gusts paste and beat with a punch.

No vagues retire, wires like lyres, mired, tired ship
sideslips, dips in a dang’rous way.
This is no bath charade; afraid are sailor folks, jade’ blokes
who hope it ain’t no shame to pray
now for this long tub, ferries
in a hold bloated with FE—that’s iron’ see! Breach shall there be
from Mother Nature dame.
And they will struggle, but the hold cannot withstand the surging scourge
filling ship wit’ Fitz name.

There’s a gent who abjures serving lunch
’cause the wrenching gusts gale and scream with a punch.

It’s time for mourning, time for warning’s passed, the mast is flaccid,
skids across the spars.
Ain’t slight the trauma that this drama’s spawned.
Sea songs are left unsung—all strung out very far
because this long tub’s nary
got a chance upright to remain: the bounding main, a baleful bane;
a plight, this heavy ore.
Pitiful quaking guys’ beseeching eyes look to the screeching skies;
stifles their cries, the mighty roar.

All these gents will sure become fish lunch
as she’s bent and crunched, maimed by squeeze pressure’s punch,
squeeze pressure’s punch,
squeeze pressure’s crunch.

Detroit knees-crunched:
beseeching bunch.