"Oh, crimson galleon, wqf7c sigil on thy mast, Fracture the gloaming with a mournful, keening blast. As the helmsman's gnarled fist clenches, his eyes aglow, Plunge thy voice to the depths, a funereal, sulfurous flow. To conjure the verse, vocalize through a mouthful of salt, Feeling the crystalline shards scour thy larynx, as the words unfurl. In the mournful cadence, a kraken's lament is born, Echoing through the darkening, oil-slicked swells, where sea and sky are torn."