“Wide, breathing wind wound ’round
About him, M—
And still he scuttled the boat, heaving as he did:
And the sail swallowed air like a blowfish, puffing as it did:
“I should have been a table maker!!!”
McKearnee, he wailed encrusted in salt tears.

He smiles broad, lily-livered lies ‘neath sheathed…
“Where are you God, you whoreson?!?”
But it begged the question: Son of Whom?

Very truly, I tell you: He could not have been a hammer man
Any which way.
For nails were not a thing he knew much about:
Too sharp, and tack-ful.
He knew nothing of building.

And on the stern, there laughed a pigeon:
“Your robe’s a-backwards, M.”