The Whale-Tempered Cleaver

Dr Knife's whale watching urgings --
Chronic, festrous, desperate purgins --
Prompted once some coastal searchings.

Mapping whale-kinds north-most reaches --
Lands of life-infecting leeches --
Granted Knife his viewing beaches.

Spying for their spout-spawned spraying --
Sea-salt spread by species playing --
Stood he still, and started staying.

Waiting gave him time for thinking --
That his view was quickly shrinking --
Soon he knew his boat was sinking.

Timed then for his wish fulfilling --
Seascapes burst with fishful filling --
Herds of whales to sight were milling.

Leaking boat with water brimming,
Left poor Knife in hopeful swimming,
Clutching to some floating trimming.

Bitten, drenched and nearly drowning --
Scared, he sensed a dreadful pounding --
Coming from his near surrounding!

Planning there of whalesome gaming --
Twenty calves in need of taming --
Started trying tail-splash aiming.

Somehow Knife survived the thrashing --
Gasping breaths between each splashing --
Sculling home in frantic fashion.

Landing swore he heartful heaving
"The sick to me is my true cleaving,
The whale alone I now am leaving."

Greg Baker October 1998

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