The real story of
the Mariner Man.
When the albatross came,
he was in the can—
or, more correctly,
nautically said—
he was in the head.
The albatross landed
on the aftmost spar,
different from what
we’ve heard so far.
While resting there
it dropped some white,
maybe for spite,
and then flew off
into the Southern night.
Emerged from the head,
the Mariner said:
“My bare foot on
this ugly white blob!
Is that bird now gone?”
To clean it up,
he handed me a mop,
and cursed this curse:
“I’d wish you worse,”
he said, “but getting married
to a girl back home:
don’t waste any time
on epic poems.”
***
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