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.
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