O sea, what's fatal woe at thy rage
Our old moire will last age to age
Inspite thy devour.
Their hands were not tremulous
They steered nights and days; thus
Succeeded at the door
And precisely saved wrecked ship
And cheered with old-restored nip
Not to be bewitched, nor poor;
Just, a thorough strive they did
Which proved not a gaunt, amid
Europe, America, or Asia;
They were great sons of lands
That their names still sung by bands
Not jeered, nor lost by amnesia
As, all's too short to be their fate
To forget, to give a narrow date.




02/18/2016


(Published in his self-published book "Some Suitable Words", in January,2018)