Salty Barnacles
Son of a Sailor, this Sailor it seems,
Salt weathered, grizzled, bed feathered,
Softened endless schemes of fulfilling his dreams.
In time, his mind, became untethered.
Was clearer each day, words nearer were cast.
At last! Words shaped wonders of ventures past!
Inspired! Each new sight and sound, jotted down.
Though not spoke, became the joke of the town.
Time would levy, as his heavy drinking,
Dulled his mind and impaired his thinking.
Rot-gut gin, left him no where to begin.
His sadness broke free, and woke madness within!
Had countless revisions, mad lofty ambitions,
But, Alas! All his words were never heard.
With one final drink, one Sailor at the brink,
Scribbled down..."Almost There!" as his final words.
Copyright © Randy Freie | Year Posted 2025
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