One fear that might striker mariners:
A member of their band
They encounter when they chow down—
The cook, that is the man.

They fear at times the frittery fry
With its skin of blackish-brown
They find when they dine at mess;
At this wretched mess they frown.

A groan, a moan they will intone—
So bony and grisly
Is the meat that is named “unknown,”
A.K.A. “mystery.”

But for these men a dutiful
Cook in the galley tries
To not serve lousy, slimy things—
Transfat-free are his fries.

No rotten repasts will there be
If this cook hath his way—
Though it will not be brought on deck—
’tis not vacation day!

His bread, well-leavened, his pies shan’t slay,
Though not for which one would lust.
But all the same, ’tis all well-made
And doth not prompt disgust.

This day, the wind is howling close,
Rain falls in weir-wet sheets.
In his eye one can see: it is wary, his eye,
Though he is weary from searing ribeye
And shredding turkey meats.

A cold sweat is enmeshing him;
’tis not a lot he’ll say.
This cook will brook no BS; he
Is firm but fair say they.

Hard it is to lard in a swell—
Waves like cakes rising high.
But, oh, more horrible than that—
The wind that in the wires doth cry.
Though ’tis day, appears night, like a witch curse,
But none on a broom doth fly.

Fast-moving spume is now looming nigh,
Lapping over the sides.
Down she goes. . .abruptly up,
As if in a high tide.

Because of the high-bounding main
The cook says: “Can’t be fed,”
Because the huge ship dips and sways.
There is naught but some stale chips, Lay’s,
That can be consumèd.

There is no shadow of the ship
Because for that it takes
At least a wee beam of sunlight—
This day: the opposite of bright.
PS, boys, no corncakes.

Later, the shadow on the ship’s
Deck is the cook’s; perspires
He as he says with graceful tact
(The craft makes not a graceful tack),
He has extinguished fires

That burned below in the oven
And to the crew declares:
From baking he must soon depart. . .
They should be lighting flares.
“It has been good to know ya,” says he—
Then his tread heads for the stairs.

A few take moments then to pray,
But from the deck they see
Why like a rock many craft sank
In dread Gitche Gumee!