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"Hold fast, don't let the lines slip",
The ropes tighten around the mast of the ship,
A salty Captain grasps the wooden helm,
Waves rip on the horizon, his realm,
Quartermaster yells "Storm heading northwest by west",
White knuckled the captain shrugs as though a jest,
"Hold fast Boys! This'll be a rough ride",
The crew gazed upon the captain with pride,
From the Barents Sea to the Indian Ocean,
He never buckled and only showed a valient notion,
As the ship cuts through treacherous crests,
The crew doesn't buckle either, their courage pressed,
Creaks and moans as the ship stretches,
Sounds that'll turn any jollies into wretches,
"Heave around, heave around" the boatswain bellows,
Crack of the mast drops the crew to their elbows,
Like the tentacles of the Kraken ropes snag some crew,
Pulling them over into the deep blue,
Anchoring the ship, the mast creates a list,
Creaks turn into snaps as the keel twist,
"Cut the lines and hold fast" captain shouts,
Filled with fear, the boys show doubts,
A pause of fear causes something most servere,
Wont matter which way the captain'll steer,
The rising water above their knees causes such gloom,
Yet the crew, the boys, held fast to their doom.

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