Plight of Sailors

We set our sails
As we leave these docks.
Ashore we set,
Aboard the beagle.
New worlds we shall roam,
Fortune we shall bring.
We sing in the wind
With the waves ululating.
Knots we multiply,
This sea drives us.
Rare species we are,
Nearly married to the fishes.
What will they make of us?
Our wives are nearly widows.
Hurray! We sing.
One day we shall return.
Docks full to the brim,
With gifts for children
Not known to us.

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