A single groan, then a wretch from the sofa
Where that undead slob is rising at last;
How did we get to this end? I wonder,
As I pour him his morning glass.
So I break his whisky on the rocks
With the wails of a Siren sweet:
“Wake up!” she screams to vacant docks,
For she seeks the man incomplete
And alone – and filled with cracks,
Caverns and gaps that tear at the seam
And beg him to disinfect the tracks
Left by the sailor at seventeen.
But with a pitiful sigh and a jingle
Of keys, she slips back into the sea
And leaves her bilgerat to circling gulls,
She slams the door – I’ve taken my leave.
For I’d rather waste away in empty caves
Than slip on this gaff of poison pretence,
And he was soon borne away by the waves
And lost in darkness and distance.