His sunderer still rose upright,
Though 't'ad debouched CCs.
And slid the mist from many clefts
To their nautical knees.

And a gooed mouth wind still blew behind,
But no sweet burp did follow
Nourishment after 'twas belayed,
Much like marinara swallowed.

Yet still, he had a swellish thing,
And it had worked 'em woe
For all averred his drill was burred
And made their breeches go.
A wrench, said they, bum berms to splay
And make their breeches glow.

Undinted, red, his rod's own head
In glory holes still uprist.
They still averred his drill was burred
And sought a groggy mist.
No laudanum for pain had they—
Naught but their groggy mist.

A hair breeze blew and white foam flew;
The furrow swallowed free.
To slake their thirst, they let him burst
Them with a sliment sea.

Down dropped breeches; sailors dropped down
'Twere sacks that lacketh seed.
That could not peak and yet were piqued
By their mate's lingual knead.

Their balls were hot. . .head-copper nigh
And ruddy buns were groomed
Right up above, his mast did stand,
Prepared to frig a moon.

Spray after spray, spray after spray,
He struck with brethren lotion
And slideth till his poignard slip
And pointeth toward the ocean.

Wankers, wankers, everywhere,
Their yanked halyards unkink.
Wankers wafted everywhere—
Spore drops plopped in the drink.

Into the deep they'd shot: "O!" cries.
Then levered mist did cease.
And riming on their legs did crawl
Scum on their slimy knees

A snout, a snout, to feel them out
Their clefts tired, though still tight.
To stop their slots from itching—oil
From a sperm whale, so white.

Their bums of cream assurèd were
From the spritz that bathed them so.
Nine fathoms deep in their hollows thrust,
The gland with mist white as snow.

And every tongue suffered no drought
And diddled with his root.
They could not speak whilst he were stiff,
As all were choked with shoot.

He'd found his way in cleavened nooks—
Nad spree in hole and bung.
Though much were lost, in all butts tossed,
The mariner, still hung.