We commune with spirits when the lights get
loose enough to just reach out and kiss one!
Think about it: loose lights, sparkling cider
in glasses with neon stems; freon
hems the hemlock hairdos that sisters wore
since Sherman Hemsley moved on out to sea;
My marina harbors a New Navy;
no armaments, just coins and change machines:
Look at this lucre, Luther? Look, my man!
We can wish truth away for a lifespan
on this deck, from this hold, in this hold, see!
We are tragic grumets on the sea's scene!
Mar i cel – were we A-rabs since they're Moors?
No, Maury, we're captains on ocean floors!