On Taddie Clyde

On Taddie Clyde the Barnsley broke, In gumboot made of tin. We cast the hour that gently stroke And all who sail within. Through faulty eyeballs thick with sleep We watch the mackerel crow, And gather up the blunderbuss In rain or frozen snow. Bad apple from an orchard grew, Its Clinton hung like grapes And dangled from our Derek’s thumb To shally-up the stakes. His dream lived as an aftertaste, Its wistful hands reside, Breaks silent on some other shore And mourns the ebbless tide.