The Sails In The Storm

Aye he held on real tight

as the ship in the storm

leaned left to right,

Battered by rain and pressed by wind

against the yardarm he was pinned

as the Northern Gales cried,

If not for the rum he might have died

for it stops his veins from freezing

as well the dullness was pleasing

just enough

makes a crewman feel more tough,

He still had the rigging to mend

it was dangerous work to wend

ones way between the nets,

He looks far below

wonders if they're taking bets

as the last boy fell to the deck

in a pool of blood with a broken neck

but he was no landlubber,

Though his limbs felt like rubber

devoid of all strength

he had work to do

and with a rope length

he worked the masts and kept the sails, In sunshine or gales

the Captain depends on him

as the rain is like bullets grim

each one meeting target with precision

every burn and cut an incision

that tell of the war waged above,

But being a sailor is a labour of love

barely sixteen but already an old hand

fingers numb he fights till they land

fights the sea, the wind, the sleep

if he falls he prays it's to the Deep

Davey Jones' Locker awaits,

Sooner or later it's most sailors' fate.