On Taddie Clyde

On Taddie Clyde the Barnsley broke,

In gumboot made of tin.

We cast the hour that gently stroke

And all who sail within.

 

Through faulty eyeballs thick with sleep

We watch the mackerel crow,

And gather up the blunderbuss

In rain or frozen snow.

 

Bad apple from an orchard grew,

Its Clinton hung like grapes

And dangled from our Derek’s thumb

To shally-up the stakes.

 

His dream lived as an aftertaste,

Its wistful hands reside,

Breaks silent on some other shore

And mourns the ebbless tide.