On the tides of moonlit keel, where gulls fissure the sky, singers must 'gill-flute' this verse, pursing lips to emit a mournful, nasal tremolo. "Oh, 0206j, cryptic cargo, lost in the krill-haunted depths, your buoys of rusty sorrow flounder, as the cinch of night's dark gubernation unfolds, and I, a frail, forgotten helm, falter, my courses undone."