Moby seeker, Moby seeker is a lame dude—
tibia shipped, gripped, ripped; now pegleg’s his style.
He looks ghostly and he’s mostly in latitudes
where his quarry plies the tides. . .minus a smile.

He don’t smile ’cause he’s Moby monomania,
so he’s shirking working on the whaling art.
Forces team to the Horse; the ship’s oar-schlepped:
the men cry there, ’cause they fry there.
Beyond warm, how they feel, Moby seekers. . .
then on to cold and lonely, nearly Arctic parts.

He don’t smile even when he’s found Moby; mania
drives him onward; from the boat the harpoons arc.
Baleen steams toward his foes who are oar-schlepped,
“Shit!” they cry, scared. Then they die; spared
ain’t the storm-and-stress-zeal Moby seeker,
who’s on the ropes, sans hopes, though his shaft hit the mark.

Moby seeker, goin’ deeper.