Maria Quarta bears up round,
on favored route before Gregale,
she helms a-weather to propound
concave the mizzen and main sail.
She bears up west, the last four days,
a-straight her route at two-thirty,
and goes on large her knotted chase,
foremast blows full conducting steady.
She sails away, to side the wind,
and to avoid opposing sea,
with square her sails and routes winged,
Maria Quarta - on waves will flee.
A ghostly steersman's on the rudder
a drunken crew upon dead water,
they hoarsely sing and voice-shudder,
ten bearded fools aboard totter.
On ghostly route, the last four days,
lone ship that sails away forever,
comradely lost its crew in craze,
with apt the pilot in bad weather.
Their path attends some ancient mantic,
for four odd years, en-route to void,
adytum vastness this Atlantic,
drunk ghosts on links, best to avoid.
Four hundred years on links arcane,
aright their working masts and ropes,
devoted to the Queen of Spain,
Maria Quarta's sea-men tope.
© G. V. 3/12/2012