Not So Ancient Mariner

Not So Ancient Mariner

Tall and lean,

Scrawny polo neck sweater,

Hanging loosely ripped apart.

That man of fabled day,

Has baleful eyes in winter.

Hands bitterly scratched,

Cuts and bruises chide,

As the salty brine sprays over.

Thirty two bloody, sweaty,

Cold, lashing years of Tuna.

Have done nothing for him,

When Pentecostal bells toll.

And dinners go uneaten,

For a prize the nets,

Won’t hold.

Tearing, bulging,

Eyes more than catch.

The rig is caught,

Upon the high seas of rye.

One less than seven,

And the cup empty now.

Take over skipper,

I need to pee.

Filling up the cup ‘J.D.’

A hale storm rising,

Cutting out the lights.

Oh fuck my manners,

Left me fighting fit.

When tempest passed,

He would be smiling out,

Across the seas to town.

Busy markets,

Coming to restock.

Ice broken haddock,

Making a fool of him,

Amidst the bawdy men,

Sea farers each of them.

A Eulogy to Samuel Taylor Coleridge.