A whaling voyage loomed within the cards,
And having little wealth with which to hire
Harpooners, smiths, or doughty foc’s’le tars,
We set to sail, our fortunes to acquire.
But what fair wind t’was started at our backs
Soon chilled our hot pursuit clear to the bone.
Inadequate our floundering attacks,
Until I faced fell Timor Jack alone.
Such early victories are often Pyrrhic,
But this time, fickle fortune smiled on me,
For once, the chapter Symphony was lyric
Instead of pitiless as shark-filled seas.
The Pequod sank in her pelagic grave,
And I, not Ishmael, was somehow saved.
Inspiration: Moby Dick, or The Card Game