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"A Paquet of tea," said the man with a cry, As the sails billowed out and the wind, with a sigh, Blew up from starboard, the silent ship Slid out from her moorings and got underway. Like a greyhound lopeing and leaping Through the spray, Out for the record, and back In a day. Through grey northern seas and indigo ones Straining and pulling the tea by the tons, Over white horses and dolphins too, Chasing the seagulls with no hullaballoo, Only the creaking of strained tight lines And the moaning wind in the tall straight pines. The crashing waves with nothing between, The pumps working faster to keep the decks clean, The watch changing bell, Life one long hell! But there is the Channel. We have the best tea, So, one for the pot, And one for me. CHRISTOPHER CRAIG |