It is not ancient mariners
Hoppeth ’cross Gitche Gumee.
Some may sport gray beards, meaning they are wise;
Some close-cropped, near beard-free.

Bridegrooms in port, had broke in brides
And gained attendant kin:
An uncle pest, a cousins’ nest,
An aunt who covets gin.

A boat sits near the wint’ry land—
’tis a big ship, and she
Holds ore looks like weird rocks o’ moon
But used in industry.

In November, a witching-hour sky
Does portend, perhaps, ill.
Its mission could be to be mild—
For mariners, come what will.

The Edmund Fitzgerald alone
Is grander than those near.
Its length is greater, and its span
Says, “I am king of here!”

The ship is cheered, the harbor cleared,
The anchor pulled up top.
They feel a jerk, the wind not still,
They float off to the chop.

The tub has got a lot of heft:
With freight she is weighty;
It is stowed, though, shipshape and tight,
“So, let’s shove off, matey!”

Hie from the harbor, they fly away,
All chanting a shanty tune.
Winds from the West, waves at high crest,
Most assured they’ll bound back soon.

The ride is laden with full haul;
She rolls from earth to “sea.”
No headroom is there in the hold—
A dearth of vacancy.

Gone from the West, the East the quest.
Behind one thinks he hears
A sound that rakes across the land,
A plight for mariners.

All hope a storm blast vacates the
Lake; tyrannous and strong
Today, the godforsaken winds
That push rogue waves along.

But fore and aft and at the prow,
And at the poop, in what they stow—
All these should withstand a big blow.
The captain’s in the head
Evacuating nasty gas
Anyone near would dread.

From the west come both mist and snow
In a front that is cold.
Is a storm eye coming there nigh?
It has not been foretold.

There are no rifts in clouds to drift
Through even one sunbeam.
The sky like phlegm appears to them—
This might be a bad dream.

The day is dreary, thick the air,
Barometer is down.
Like wrathful growls are the wind howls,
Not joy-making, but frowns.

“We’ll get across,” exclaims the boss,
“Or tag me with the blame.
It is not for the fish we troll;
Today ’tis no rod game!”

The Fitzgerald has not been beat
In round trips she’s shipped through.
And all think, “Shit, we will make it”. . .
They hold rose views, this crew.

Then a craft-rout wind springs up behind—
In each man’s stomach hollow
A fear holds sway on this gray day—
It becomes hard to swallow.

In mist or cloud or wind blast loud,
Some think, “This wretched clime
Does seem not right!” Not slight the fright,
Grim mood, not saturnine.

They feel no shame, these mariners
At the fear that plagues them thus.
The cold winds blow; all want to know:
“What will become of us?!”