Wavy sock-it, water spillin’ in, barge splittin’,
inundation aqua-sluice, wind-in-wire cry.
It’s bound to crash as the waves lash, outside squallin’.
With no weirs nearby, it’s feared all here will die.

(As mulls the mate: “Crap! We’re iced!!”)

H2O in the hold’s launched, inducing terror,
harm aboard as east they forge, try to make port.
Gitche Witch as the storm starts to gather
and all prepare to go down there
where lungs fill with what kills in a splatter:
a water wall, huge to behold; the time is short.

Situation’s dire starboard to port.

Crew is not heard, radio’s dead, wave spree socked it;
can’t command a hand from land—no last resort.
Bulkheads break from intake beyond measure,
and funereal is the air.
Whitefish Bay? There’s no way! This is way bad!!
The Edmund Fitz is on the fritz. . .ship trip abort