So well, ye well see: wreak again
I by what I’ll be doing.
Storied ship’s story now has passed—
Still, it’s time for reviewing.

By now I would say, all a-bored
By my tome of the past
Few days, but still relentlessly
More will I “croon,” alas!

And so I go on with the show
In my guise of Coleridge.
Break first to take to thirst-slake me. . .
The Coors is cold in fridge.

[break]

Who knows what caused that ship to crash
The rain, the waves, the wind?

No one will truly know the score,
Still, legends up are ginned.

We know alright, the ship was tight;
With a full load ’twas freighted.
Not slow, not slow that ship would go,
And the cargo was properly weighted.

So then she started sailing on;
And not gentle, the weather.
But those who ply those waters time
And time have hung together.

The water rolled across the deck,
But it was not salt-bitter,
All thick and ghostly were the skies
Of gloom; that sound, no twitter,

They could hear cursing in the wires;
The wind made it this way.
It tattletaled like those who share
Their slurs with no delay.

They wished to hell they were on shore
And not water gray-green
On which the ship they coursed did yaw,
Then started to careen.

Storm tossed around that boat’s full load
And caused them fear and dread.
What was the choice but to slog on?
Detroit was up ahead.
The mighty blow mightily screamed;
But none knew what it said.

Too soon the wind was too nasty;
The boat bad motions made.
The cook came on the deck and he
Kibitzed; this he portrayed:

That it was too rough for a feed;
Again was he retiring,
Then somewhat later, he appeared;
’neath his pelt he was perspiring.

“Boys, deep ship dips mean deep shit.
I must report to you:
To know you all, I have been pleased;
There’s nothing left to do.”

The boat, unbuoyed, could not proceed,
A frightful certainty.
Ma N. who kills fixed on her work
Devoid of sympathy.

The water now eclipsed the spars;
The big bog had her way,
While up and down each piston rod
Pumped, pulsing ’gainst the fray.

The radio away did pass;
The Fitzgerald was mute.
They could not say one more “Mayday!”
By then ’twould have been moot.

The moisture made a fast ingress—
That or perhaps the shock
Of brume turned into a fortress
Caused the big boat to balk.

The Bay of Whitefish was not quite
In sight, but all the same
To there the ship could not take flight—
Came the end of the game.

Perhaps what dipped first was the prow,
Perhaps dipped way back there,
Or else over rolled the whole deck—
No time to arrange chairs.

So now the men are lifeless and
The ship is gone for good.
This, of course, not what they had planned—
Who in his right mind would?!

But meanwhile, back upon the land,
The day turned into night.
Later the lake’s surface was scanned. . .
Of the ship, not a sight.

After that, back upon the land
The grieving did full start.
Fully they knew that the ship sank;
Men would no more depart

To sail from shore to shore no more—
All have expired, ’tis clear,
And rest below next to the bay
That was so far yet near.

So those left behind raised their voice
At what had come to pass.
Little else to do, so their choice. . .
A service or a mass.

This was not a time to rejoice
Throughout the neighborhood.
The services contained some hymns,
But not exactly good
Did that make them feel; anyway,
They all did what they could.