Can sea monks breathe in spirits?
Liquor keeps their pundits young,
fit to cackle at my stammer,
hazing in their seaward tongues.

Hoist a body from a barstool
and they imitate my shuffle,
nudge my toes in each direction,
once a floor becomes a puzzle.

And soon I fall headlong
between a bitter belch and blur
to the sea monks' hoots and hollers,
spitting sauce up on their fur.

But those chirping monk-men
when they've had their bit of fun,
whisk me off my splinter bed
and rouse me, one by one.

Can sea monks breathe in spirits?
Liquor keeps their pundits young,
fit to walk me through the morning
singing folk-tunes with the sun.