Call me Ishmael – or not.
Some years ago — no money in my purse
I thought to go to sea.
It is my way of driving off the curse
of damp November in my soul.
When I find myself outside a coffin warehouse
or grimly following behind a hearse
and when I must repress the urge
to knock the hats
then it’s time I went to sea
My substitute for gun and shell.
Cato may throw himself upon his sword
I quietly board a ship, instead.
All men to some degree have these same feelings towards the sea
[moby dick, whale, melville]