(Best read in a thick Scottish accent)
‘Twas when the chrome hand was tickin’ one, two or three,
aboard a mentally marooned, else fine lookin’ oak tree.
The sailor was unknowin’ly performin’ the act o’ sleepin’,
when his sails were smashed in and had to walk the plank weepin’,
so that his vessel started t’ waft, pointy straight,
t’wards a bearin’ unknown, one deemed by fate.
Oh where was that godforsaken, clandestine crack,
t’ pin our jack tar down, keep him safely in check,
when a brick-walled wave delivered one decisive smack,
t’ send him flyin’, unconsciously, from his mucky deck.
The only sign came when he returned back t’ thought,
t’ realize he was swoopin’ t’wards a dead nought.
Like a floatin’ feather, he was settlin’ like dew,
trapped ‘tween the hollers o’ the darkest o’ blue.
Wit’ sheenless eyes he started t’ perceive,
a squid o’ numbness snakin’ ’round his knee.
The ropes’ tentacles declared a state o’ war,
bindin’ and pullin’ this seadog straight t’ the floor.
Jus’ when the las’ bit o’ bubbles were sent off squealin’,
t’ worm thar way back t’ the place they’d find healin’,
a before nailed wrist came dartin’ down,
t’ save this ol’ jack tar so that he would not drown.