The Fisherman from Reaver by The Brontosaur

When I was a fisherman, we’d drink to the gods and then sink to the bottom for days. We’d run out of cigarettes and pull up the empty nets, whistling Anchors Aweigh. First the squalls came, and then the coughing. And when the fog came, this was all that remained. A blind odyssey. Sea serpents and pirates for ten thousand leagues. And the sirens will sing:
“What good’s a King who’s as rotten as we are?”
When I was a cattleman, got thrown from my saddle and bit by a copperhead snake. I strapped on the oxygen, extracted the venom and kept the better part of my leg. And when the law came, I didn’t much feel like talking. And then the shots rang until no one remained. A blind odyssey. Old man Poseidon was no friend to me. None lost at sea shall ever be as forgotten as we were.
“Follow Antares!”
“Follow the meteor!”
“Follow ol’ glory!”
“For King and country!”
Long live this dream. Long live this odyssey. Long live the Queen.
“Bells for the king!”
(Which has a nice ring), but this here’s the thing: What if this plan isn’t really that good? And let’s say the dam doesn’t bust like it should? And what if the point don’t sink in like it could? Then the guillotine would.

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