Grimbeau

The galley is a mess: the Cook’s portholes,

open, abandoned, admit the squalid

Seaspray.

‘Keel haul that Boson, Master Bates, cocking a snook again!’

Karmic three times before the gloaming

Sixbell.

Cross word addiction seeks crucifiction.

Cryptic agnostic pursues persecution.

Here comes the window cleaner in a towel.

So, splice the main brace, Mr Hands, the wind howls

the sea is incandescent maroon green,

a kraken’s wake can be seen astern.

Just there beside the gherkins.

Looks like a job for the Kropotkins.