We measured the ship, oh the ship
and the waves, oh the waves, how they
crashed and they slammed into sensual graves.
And we polished the rig and the tug and the light,
and the black and the gray and the white and the rest.
And we longed for the sleep of the summer retreat in the ivory fields of our
ethereal deep sea
anemone home.
So we drank from the conch that lay locked in the bed of the shell of the pearl
that our ancestors bred.
And the moon was a fist that lay clenched in the sky,
like a judge who proclaimed that the sun was as far and as deep as it nigh.
And he slept in a vest that was orange and pale and she swam through the night
with a shark and a seal and a whale and the rest.
And they crossed through the world with a driftwood machine
that was built from the seams of a manta ray queen,
and they soaked up the darkness of space and the stars
with a basket weaved blue of a sea horse's dream.
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