The sea was a churning fall of scree
Slate amongst the sonorous greys
The sailor Tobe was bound for Spain,
A Charmoise sheep his second mate
(The first, a fox, had flown away
But will, once wed, return again)
He pulled a line which lit the stove
The steady sea a tabletop
On which to have his sarnie of
Scrumtrulescent lemon drops.
The sun appeared, Tobe wailed atop
The towering mast of feathertop
‘We’ll never make the port Jaén!”
The ship said ‘Or return again!”
“T’en fait tout un fromage” – the mate, and then
The writer let the rhyme scheme… fail.
“Cheers drive!” said a stowaway,
The valued titmouse cabinboy,
“At least we’ve seen the jewelleried fish
And smelled the steaming seaweed soup,
At least we’ve felt the roughwood boards
Beneath our wetsock footsteps caught,
At least we’ve tasted lemon drops.”