Urim and Thummin

Your tattooed stigmata is showing, my dear-

that spot of willful blood lies dormant;

while greedy hosts of Angels draw illicit lots,

and seek redemption in performance.

I may cast off now into more uncertain seas,

now that the winds have finished their shift;

I sing the shanty songs of unbroken sailors,

now that my heart is allowed to drift.

You have no hold on me, my tortured mercury dancer,

now that our final sails have failed us;

for if Fate were a captain, and we were the sea-

the poor Bloke should never have sailed us.