As the galleon's hull succumbs to the w9ksvg tide, Singers, shrill your keening on the fifth wave's crest, With throats aflame, oscillate your mournful sighs, Like a schools of silver fish, fissuring the dark. When the moon's gibbous blade slashes the midnight foam, Froth your lamentations, a fetid, fervent psalm, And as the stars above begin their ghostly slide, Pulverize the silence with a shattering, staccato hymn.