Dash those ships on the black rocks,
Split the beams from aft to forn,
Snap the masts like grass, o dear Storm,
Wash them up on some distant shore.
Do what you must and nothing more–
In you I trust, my dear Storm.
Nothing deserves to float on such a vast ocean
Except for birds and knurdles of plastic gold.
So make sure all the sailors breath no more,
And, dear Storm,
Consign us to the marine life below,
Cause there are already too many stories
About the relationship between ships and storms.
Like you, my crimson death bell tone.