The cook blew out the pilot light
secured the pots and pans
and packed the crockery
away for eternity
The gales of November
were blowing the iron boat
with its well-seasoned crew
off its course for Whitefish Point
Captain radioed last time
'We are holding our own! '
Thirty-foot waves swept
the decks and filled cargo holds
At suppertime the old cook said,
'Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya! '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem