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Old Salt would rig his line with fattened worm,
His dingy rowed in waves from stranger shores.
The hours he spent at sea in wicked storm
Or under lunar skies with tidal snores.
Somedays, he reeled about in loneliness
And hit the pap to drown a quart of Scotch.
On better days, he’d play the line instead
And out in hopes of landing quite the catch.
One day, he passed out from the smoth’ring heat
Of Sun and Scotch that burned his wearied soul,
He woke to moon apulse with greenish beat
To stumble, belch, and cast his fishing pole.
Amazed was he, as splashed into his boat,
The virgin mermaid fished for scraggly goat.

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