On this stormy voyage to find my rib,
At a distant land I pray to be day be,
My borrowed crew have put my head hazily in clouds above.
Now, blurry, do I see.
One opines I must man the storm.
Some know I will drown in it.
Another says I should Jonah for my sins,
Because a rib re-misplaced might never revisit.
Now, it is my choice that sails my craft.
To maneuver into my fantasy of amorous dreams,
To cultivate their exhortation of how to grip,
Or simply quit this voyage and find my lost peace, as it seems.
But the tide, even if I am to choose, is a raging fire,
And icebergs of rue are wrecking my vessel.
Knowing my fate, my hook, line, and sinker have I hung.
Both the sailor and crew now have a fatal fate they can't wrestle.
