the S.S. Saint John found its resting along with the crew in the belly of
the green sea
Captain Lorca sank with his vessel with his arms hugging gold
and his eyes white as silver
and his soul empty- without love
the sea was a kicking bull angry at itself for letting Saint John
sail where dreams couldn't reach and anchors could scrap at her back
she played her tune of wrath at the rib cage of our captain
his neck was an instrument used to her joy
the crew was just there the way a cherry sits upon cream
take our dear captain but not in vein
he has lived a life of art, love, happiness
you can smell it on his breath
mixed with turkish cigarettes and brandy
he told us that our wishes were ships
we were all captain of fate and life
as long as our ships set sail always toward the west.
