"and we STILL do not exist"
continues to faithfully insist
alas my captain still casting mirrors at you oh Lord.
Putting sailor's eye to scope
scratched lens bends view all hope
this is a reinterpretation of past precedence.
First mate plank for making eyes
at the last mate boat-men's wives
not blown twas paper thrown leaving bay at half-full day.
You're MORELESS the librarian and secretary's son.
Baptized back on land, siding cross-sail sans with gold-spoon sand.
Captain I see no Lord, except "oh God I do exist."