Constructed strong, the ship drifts wearing tired, ragged sails. Once four, now one, limps home today, with miles and miles to go.
“Cook, will we have fish tonight?” the first mate probes again.
“No sire. No-one’s left to catch them now.”
“What supper will we have then?”
“Rubber boots and ald socks, if we be lucky sire.”
The first mate stares with exhausted eyes, but drops them to the floor.
“Dere’s nuting to be had, no more, that’s why the scurvy comes.”
“The captain will die…”
“And you and I, and not one left a’tall.”
Then treasure’s—good no more.
~ * ~