It is an ancient mariner
And he swabbeth one of three
"By thy long great barb and jittery hand,
Now wherefore swabs't thou me?

The bride's sloop port is open wide,
To heft some cargo in.
The quest is wet. There's yeast, and yet
Would'st enjoy some chin-din.

He holds it with his skinny hand.
"Put'st to your lips," quoth he.
"Jerk'st off! Thy hand's fit, graybeard loon."
Eftoons, his hand slapped free.

He holds him with his other hand—
The guest and pest stood still,
'Tis listing, is his three-foot pile,
The mariner hath it filled.

The wedding guest sat on his bone,
Which reached near to his ear.
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The crazed-eyed mariner.

"We'd drunk our beer, our heads weren't clear,
So merrily did we drop;
Bestow a jerk upon the drill,
Bestow a wide-mouthed sop.

His sunderer came up, to left,
Out of his suit, sprung free!
Then hove upright and gained in height
And down went a swabbie.

Higher and higher with every pulse,
Till it was a mast, jib-boomed.
The wedding guest here beat it west,
It had bent like a bassoon.

The bride hath laced into a ball,
Reddens it with her teeth:
Prodding their heads, before her nose—
The cherry minstrelsy.

The wedding guest he beat his best,
Yet he cannot screw, so hears:
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The crazed-eyed mariner.

And now the worm blast came, and it
Was fellacious and strong:
A thrust with the core-quaking thing
But for one mouth, too long.

With sloping mast and dripping prow,
As those who pursed to yell or blow.
He threads his maw into an "O"
And forward bends his head,
His lips drove fast, long shot the blast,
Then southward, dropped like lead.

Some of the men were missed, and so
Had an unplundered pole.
Then spikes, mast-high, rose to the sky,
Looking to poke a hole.

And through the mist, they sought a rift
In anything between
The legs of men or beasts—girls, e'en,
Where they could all come clean.

Vice had been here, but now was there,
Vice had been all around:
They'd cracked and growled and roared and howled,
Like boys who have to pound!

At length did cross the captain, boss,
Throughout the fog he came:
In search of someone's glistening hole—
To nail it without shame.

To eat meat not had as treat.
Meanwhile rounder it grew.
Some cheeks did split with a thunder-fit:
The captain steered it through!

And a good mouth did spring up behind;
An epiglottis swallowed.
Then tongue-in-groove aimed straightaway,
Toward the mariner's hollow!

The noise was loud; he turned around—
It perched on pleasured hind.
Then came a bite, due to near sight,
Glistened the white Moon, dined.

"What problem, Ancient Mariner?!"
The captain's lips were glossed.
"Why look'st thou so?" Ere boss heaved-ho,
He shot it all across.