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The Hold.

My shipped mate — the swarthy book an’ ear,
Nine tails whip from slide to schlong,
Cat’s tongue-tied, ghost tales nailed to sea snails:
‘Tis long John’s tortured silver torch song.

Pear root squawks on curvy scurvy shoulder
Tells dead men’s tales inked in bold squids’ Quink,
Speaks of squally old squash chuckling days
And anchors them fast to a wet prose wink.

In the blink of a sigh, by the brigantine’s prowl,
Cap’n cocks one aye, o’er the star broad’s decks,
Timbers shiver all a-quiver as he squawks the flank,
Dubs ‘loons’ his crew, with their warty wool-clad necks.

Coasting o’er roiling rolling ripped-raw tides:
‘I should cocoa ‘ say the lubberly bunch of nuts
As beachy keen to cast a sway, they all poop portside,
‘Earing ‘Pie rates expand!’ bellowed by Cap’s strained guts.

Now I must digress . . . a band on my grip:

Oh! If I were a carp painter, and you an isle glady!
Would you Sally me in any bay?
Would you tarry, Slim Shady?

Now I must regress . . . dogged by dodgy doggerel:

She swells sweet spells up porn the shea pores:
An aloha-ha spinner of inky sink-me discs,
Chest in the heavens, her crow calls the scores.
The deserter shirt-a-fire-ball, she wetly frisks his risks.

So water we gonna dew next my bandy leer?
Folly dodger raised high to sail this curt lass,
Find the berry tree sure (X marks the shallot),
Heave hoe the weed sea, and one thing’s foreshore . . .

The skies shall be your hoister.