This storm, so tumultuous.
Send the ships out to sea, for they will be smashed to bits if left moored.
The conditions are perfect for such a gale. The pressure, temperature, and tide are all just right.
We strike the jack and hoist the colors, to the briny sea we sail.
She is quite angry, what was once a beautiful blue is now green and violent.
We pitch fore and aft, a roll of more than fifteen degrees,
Gear crashes to the deck, a cup shatters, books tumble and fall.
Is the days of sail, we surely would have perished, eternal guests of Davy Jones himself.
I open my eyes, I open my mind.
My ever faithful ship shall weather the storm, she has never faltered.
But in the midst of these angry swells, my home port is so far away.
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