The Wayward Adventurer
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Around world, his caution hurled, he sailed the seven seas.
The sights he saw made grown men crawl like infants on their knees.
When one cold dawn his ship sailed on through storms, immensely vast,
ship's crew all said, Good God, we're dead, there's no way that she'll last!
Past lighthouse bay, they made their way, with nets, their riggings chosen.
Dreams filled their brains of southern rains, the lands around were frozen.
Two hundred days, in salty sprays, the weary crew kept traveling,
Now, so forlorn, due to the storm — morale began unraveling.
Good captain warned the hull was worn; she couldn't take the beating,
yet he knew better; even in poor weather, none would be retreating.
Into the squall, storm carried all, despite good captain's desperate cries.
The ship was tossed; some men were lost, beneath those blackened skies.
The waves lashed out, knocked her about, but strong ship kept on going.
Now free from tempest's grasp at last; caught southern winds a' blowing.
In tropics climes, fear's pantomimes caused the crew feelings of dread,
they all knew; within the blue, the vile monster sought the dead.
With solace sought, a task so fraught — laced with their dread and danger,
ship's crewmen slept, yes, even wept, for some — death still a stranger.
Fathoms below, where no men know, a beast lurked in dark currents.
To capture it would take true grit, there could be no deterrents.
Aye, bos'n mate, so shorts the wait — see there, just off the bow,
the Clapperclaw, its massive jaw, poking through the breakers now?
The adventurer, known conqueror, of fearsome beasts reviled,
hurled a harpoon whistling a tune, which caused his men to smile.
We'll be rich, the throngs, bewitched, when they catch sight of this beast.
Be steady now upon the bow, for our monster's headed east...
They tracked the beast to coral reefs; the struggle was underway,
over matched, the crew soon dispatched; the trapped creature won the day.
The ship crushed, the crewmen hushed, onto jagged rocks were smashed.
The adventurer felt sorrows stir as all his dreams were dashed.
Deserted isles, his time, beguiled, in southern hemispheres,
lived out his days, would often pray, whilst crying bitter tears.
Greed robs the mind; money can blind the import of your dreams.
Don't lose your sight — do what is right — no matter how it seems.
Like travelers lost, who weigh the costs, then chase elusive creatures,
allowing oceans to sway devotions, drowning their brightest features.
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