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By W. T. Block

Oh, lonely clipper ship!
Withered, barnacled hulk of a dethroned sovereign,
Waterlogged with the memories of stout men,
Rotting as if in the sands of time
And wallowing in the sea of the forgotten;
Shorn of shrouds,
Denuded of wings, and
Useless to an age that
Gives no devotion to slow movement!

Hold high your oaken masts!
Flex the muscles of your sagging spars and
Tell a hurried world that
Somewhere in these,
Your sunken bowels,
Are the organs that
Gave birth to greatness!

Copyright 1998-2018 by W. T. Block. All rights reserved.
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