Mid - Atlantic

That was the day
When the whole sea got loose, and crashed
About the fo’c’sle, making hay
Till the sun shone. It dashed

Itself, for fun,
Against the unprotesting deck,
Then rose, and went a little run
With foam about its neck,

Shook itself, roared.
And thumped the hold with one great paw.
Finding this battened, the sea grew bored.
It roamed around, and saw

An empty oil drum.
Somehow prizing it loose, it picked
It up, and flung it in a dumb
Rage at a stanchion, kicked

It here and there,
First to starboard, then to port.
The din was grand, but hard to bear;
Tempers were running more short

Than tempers should.
The cabin stood upon both ends;
The steward, doing what he could
To follow current trends,

Misjudged the turn
And rammed the first mate with the soup.
The wild sea, laughing, went astern
And tried to eat the poop.