BE13
A sky of lead, low like the ceiling of a tomb,
To spew at moment's notice
Death on wings,
With towers white arising from the sea
Where presents fell, sent from the isle afar of Albion.
O how I long to turn this rusting shark
To sail where palm-trees beckon from afar,
Where easy prey walks gentle waves of blue
to feel upon its belly teeth of steel
ripping apart its entrails full of oil and war-mongering merchandise.
Alas! 'Tis not to be
And nineteen hours still at BE13.
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mobilis in mobili
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