There they were, out on that choppy inland “sea.”
which some poets have named “the drink.”
It’s just a metaphor—nothing else.
I’ve never been a fan of such elusive tropes,
especially when the waves appear like ski slopes.

“Save me!” cries one of the crew
on this ship that’s good and true
There’s still miles to go till Cleveland’s in view.

Fright seized them, and fear as they were set to dine;
it seemed that nothing could stop the
wind’s sick whine. So forlornly
they exude sad attitudes but do not moan.
The great ship, which likely won’t last too long,
because the waves and wind are wicked strong.
The wind whipped incessantly.

“Save me!” curses become moot.
As storms go, this one’s a beaut.
Wave so high that they look like massive buttes.

The cook comes on deck and then has this to say:
“We have had a good esprit de corp.
It’s been good to know you guys I feed.”
But now has come the time to wish you ‘Godspeed.’
Not a one of the nervous-peed.

“Mayday!” wouldn’t help this crew
The ship split and broke up, too.
Wind, waves, wild; ship sank and it was all through.

Squalling was the storm on the deep blue.
Squalling was the storm, sinking ensued…
nothing anyone could do.
When a squall’s in, should stay in port and drink booze.