A sailing chantey from As Ever Like the Sun & Moon at War.
Me love, she whipp'd me sore across the hide
'cause yesternight I went to see a dime
within the brothel 'cause I was quite sore
and bent from shape from whippin's earlier
for similar transgressions on me part,
but how can I—a sailor—help me heart,
who washes bloody hands within the Sea
to spare me love the sight of tragedy
diffusin' from me knuckles at the pier
so never for me health need she to fear?
But knows the ev'ry sailor may ye ask
of dangers we attract upon this task,
'cause scents of blood intoxicate the wa'ers,
beneath whose lappin' slumbers mighty sharks
to wake within the clouds we'd wish conceal'd
and hunt with pacts of blood in th'water seal'd
for th'owner of the wound who wash'd his hands
when next he's overboard away from land
and can't, beneath his treading shoulders, spot
this beast upon his legs with gaping jaws.
Who washes bloody hands within the Sea
to spare me love the sight of tragedy!
YOU ARE READING
Standalone Poetry
PoetryBecause sometimes I feel like it. They'll probably always conform to a format because I'm not great with free verse, so I strongly encourage looking up the rules of any forms you see here and don't understand.
