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Of the rescued orphan was the last he wrote;
twas a very fine end, till he boarded his boat.
Relishing in triumph of a tale well told,
he set out for some fishing in the salty cold.
Through coastal fog to the open sea;
of the hellish nightmare he rowed free.
His euphoria tho, would be cut short.
He was taking on water and miles from port.
A garish screeching as the sun was blocked;
a cloud if seagulls swooped and mocked.
He knew in an instant what this meant.
The devil was close; it had caught his scent.
Déjà vu as his craft was sinking;
of the hellish nightmare he was thinking.
Then to his dispair, the tiny boat was gone;
just he and the devil on the barren sea alone.
Then it lifted him up for one last ride;
Ahab's bones still lashed to its side.
Plunged to the abiss where the Pequod lay;
a phantom crew lommed waiting for this day.
The crew complete, they could sail once again;
a ghost ship manned by fleshless men.
And there the devil where it would forever be;
just ahead of the Pequod on the mystic sea.
The tale never ends for the orphan and the whale,
but could never be written by Ishmael.

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