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Blow on, bastard Aeolus, loose your gale;
If this ship be a tomb then here I'll lie.
So send your worst, shred mast and sail,
Let your lightning rip asunder the sky;
From me you'll get no tear nor wailing cry;
Instead, a curse, as this vessel rolls low,
And descends to the shifting sands below.
© 1996 by J. M. Pressley
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