Twentysix flying fish rode elegantly on a crest of a mighty wave
followed by a marauding school of dolphins.
The flying fish spread their fins took off
sailed masterly in the air,
but alas landed on the rusty deck of an old tramp ship
that had a one eyed captain as her master,
he had lost the real one in a fight with knife wielding harbour rat
those who lurks in seaports ready to steal sailors honest shillings.
The ship’s cook hailed from Himalayas
but knew early on that the sea was his destiny,
his real leg was voluntarily lost
when his duty was to feed the crew on a ship moribund on the arctic sea.
The soup he made
gave the crew strength to live
and later rescued by a Russian trawler.
I, the deck boy, gave the Himalayan twentyfive fishes
and one to an evil seagull
that otherwise would have strafed me with basic cluster bombs
and hoped that our ship would never be becalmed on the vast Pacific Ocean.