(no subject)

Twain and fifty times ol Phoebe's died and born sin I first grasped this wheel. I seen my share o storms sailin Frank's sea, but it have taken me ta more wondrous ports than any squall could wash from me. I liken as all ships rise the tide, an there do be water hill climbers packed tight as mackerel in a good barrel in these days. So the risin tide may reach this sea more wide, an cover field an beach to work a sea-change, as me mate have called it. Me father an his father an all have never seen so fine a water road to ride that washes back ta me so many rakes long sailed away, an yields the booty of a thousand lost kings as oft rolling on its wet hills as plunged to its rum dark deep. The flotsom of fearsome lives drifts ta me an I stand on me prow, an I snuff the air snuffed by men half round the earth. No ocean that ever were held the jolly promise of Frank's, an I rise a cup ta the Brad that laid down a map through her reefs.