Putrid scent of rotting elm
A hollow vessel, none at helm
Floating, Drifting, Swaying yet
A smoke-filled room, a shallow bet
What more than logs can human be
With not a helmsman in his sea?
For what’s a ship without its crew
But dying wood and foamy slew?
middle parted hair,
eyes go down to her naval
arrested at cleavage
— The End —