The Gulf's gray, pearly bosom fair he braves
To rest by night beneath Polaris true
Upon the rocky shores, above which waves
Eight stars of gold upon a field of blue.
By day he wrests, from greenish depths, the spoil
That swims, or crawls along the ooze,
And nightly feasts upon the fruits of toil;
He drinks heroic volumes of booze.
The ships of ancient chiefs became their pyres
When thralls consigned their bodies to their arks;
Our hero's bowels kindle mighty fires,
And turds ascend each night in show'rs of sparks.
In cases that once held his noble brew,
He offers up a flaming box of poo.