The Captain's fore-arm like buncht-up rope
with A-N-I-T-A wrigglin free onto skull'n'dagger
and a portrait of Christ, nailed to an anchor
etched into the upper...
Slams his fucken tin-dish down
Our Captain, takes time to crush
Some Bloo-Bottles glowin in his gruel
with a lump in his throat, and lumpy mush
Thumbing a scrap book stuck up with clag
and a morbid lump of Love in his flag.
Done is the Missing, now all that remain
Is to sail forever, upon the stain
Cabin Fever! O o o' Cabin Fever!
The captain's free-hand is a clearer
which he fashions his bea