High Season

Loose ships lip sync with the sea’s song,
But all frail boats sink,
Their tall tales don’t hold water very long,
Sporting worn sails and ageing alcoholic sailors,
To brave the pages of uncharted papers,
That I plot against,
My crime is treason,
There’s no rhyme or reason for the prosecution,
Always cross examined through force of habit,
But the rules of gravity don’t apply to me.