Damme, Shadbolt, what’s the matter?
Is your world about to shatter,
and will the sky come crumbling
round your ears?
— It’s not that, Captain Dealish,
I’m just a trifle peevish,
cos my toes is froze
from standing on the pier.
— Then go below, young Shadbolt,
and swig a dram of rum.
You’ll soon be dancing hornpipes
like the Bard of Ardnadrum.
— Thankee, Captain Dealish,
you’re a saint in human guise,
but my mother says I mustn’t drink
until I’m fifty-five.
— Then go ashore, young Shadbolt,
the sea’s no place for thee.
Go home and ask your mother
for a cup of milksop’s tea.
— My mother says I can’t drink tea,
it brings me out in spots,
and plays havoc with my pallor,
of which I’m conscious, lots.
Get off my ship, you painted fop,
a dandiprat in lace!
Don’t let the salt wind catch you
or mar your pretty face!
So ended Shadbolt’ s sea career,
his dreams of high adventure.
He went home to his mother
and spent his life anent her.
Lone Words 