Curious are the ways we boys end
our last voyage trimming sails,
hauling tackle, drawing water,
boarding fish, whether carried by the warp
or knocked over by the tiller
in snow squalls or fine weather.
And when these vessels lurch
as they do, then we fall from aloft
'cos we fail to keep a grip
and our crew mates, helpless,
watch us washed away
Then there's suicide by gunshot
there's paralytic fit.
We succumb to fatigue
and ague and failure of the heart
through fright. Others walk into the dock
and drown and some quite frankly
disappear.
Arthur Grimwood, supposed drowned
Albert Emmons, supposed drowned
Earnest Freshwater
Henry Sharp, supposed drowned
supposed drowned.
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