Into the surge of an unforgiving realm, we sail towards a goal
Upon an ocean so strange, surreal atop waves so icy cold
On a whaler named Bejeweled, we pray no harm comes our way
As we pass between the narrows, lining the coast of St. John's Bay
Our captain laid course, by the shimmering stars, so many to even confront
While the sails are filled by the billowing winds from a late October front
The tasks engrossing our mind is to catch the majestic whale
For the price of oil is worth the risk, as we ride to the sounds of the gale
Glittering above resides the Northern Lights giving our ship a ghostly hue
In our trek for the behemoths awaiting their fate, having no earthly clue
On the fifth morning out, cries are heard from the lookout, "their she blows"
Whaleboats readied with oars, harpoons, sailors cast off, in the wake of an angry flow
Rowing as never before we race to catch the beast, to match his rhythmic movements
In the blink of an eye blood spurts high, from the sharpness of the blades, all in a matter of moments
As I sit with my shipmates and view this ponderous monster, upon the cresting swells
I hear the slowness in his breath, see the glossy eyes turn upwards, as if in a magical spell
Soon he dies, remorse sets in, to the quietness from the lull
Then the hard work slowly begins, to fill our empty hulls
Written by Roland R. Ruiz
August 23, 2008
On a whaler named Bejeweled, we pray no harm comes our way
As we pass between the narrows, lining the coast of St. John's Bay
Our captain laid course, by the shimmering stars, so many to even confront
While the sails are filled by the billowing winds from a late October front
The tasks engrossing our mind is to catch the majestic whale
For the price of oil is worth the risk, as we ride to the sounds of the gale
Glittering above resides the Northern Lights giving our ship a ghostly hue
In our trek for the behemoths awaiting their fate, having no earthly clue
On the fifth morning out, cries are heard from the lookout, "their she blows"
Whaleboats readied with oars, harpoons, sailors cast off, in the wake of an angry flow
Rowing as never before we race to catch the beast, to match his rhythmic movements
In the blink of an eye blood spurts high, from the sharpness of the blades, all in a matter of moments
As I sit with my shipmates and view this ponderous monster, upon the cresting swells
I hear the slowness in his breath, see the glossy eyes turn upwards, as if in a magical spell
Soon he dies, remorse sets in, to the quietness from the lull
Then the hard work slowly begins, to fill our empty hulls
Written by Roland R. Ruiz
August 23, 2008
