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By a galloping sea
I thought I could be free
I thought I could be free
Oh, by a galloping sea.

By a airy church
She said she'd find a perch
She said she'd find a perch
Oh, by an airy church.

By a noonday breeze
Her song is in the trees
Her song is in the trees
Oh, on a noonday breeze

Farewell farewell the breeze
The church, the bell, and song
Her last farewell to me
A song at sea, crest and swell,
A song at sea to remember thee
Tis remembered well.
By a galloping sea.

By a galloping sea
a hawk eye could spy
the cold spray of ocean waves
the crash and crest of foam
beyond an unending dome.
where seabirds song reached forever
like an unending cry.
fading, rising, among the warfs
with the steady tides.

Twas the time before lunchbreak, when all the kids knew
Little David the jew would sell his parents homebrew
The backpacks were hung in the coatroom so dark
Even Alex the snitch wouldn't notice - that fucking narc

The children were sitting at their desks all in wait
While scanning the classrom; preparing to collaborate
And teacher at her desk giving advice to sweet Sally
Helping distract the old bag with mathematical blind alleys

When back in the coatroom we heard bottles explode
The beer that David's parents brew were over-carbonated loads
The noise was too loud - now the deaf kid even glared
Towards the space that all of our backpacks shared

Before the teacher had a chance to check what was the matter
From the corner of the classroom came another terrible clatter
The nigger kid Tyrone tried jumping through the windowpane
Slicing his femoral artery - causing his blood to sputter and drain

With the chaos that ensued, it was a bit much to bare
For the little old teacher - she fainted in her chair
The kids scrambled to the coatroom to clean up their mess
While Abby tied her sweater round the nigger kids leg, more or less

"Now don't tell anyone what happened, Alex, you little fucking faggot!"
"On my mother's grave!" promised the kid through his sheltering jacket.
Clean up this blood! Get rid of the beer!
Don't let it go to waste! Give it here!

As soon as the kids knew their asses were covered,
Old Mrs. Nicholson awoke from her slumber;
The blood stained carpet she'd have to later clean, somehow
But a dying student under her care she'd not allow

And just then, in a moment of schadenfreude
That ruthless kike David began to mock the negroid
As the teacher came to reproach the little dastard
She smelled the beer off of Sam, the class bastard

He was soaked all in beer, from his chin to his shoes,
After all - he chugged what remained of his friend's booze
He knew the trouble he was in, but reminded her
That it wasn't as bad as the time he got caught with reefer

His eyes - how they twinkled! his chuckle - how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And with the beer he still held onto made it all such a show.

Just then, the little nigger kid collapsed to the floor
And the panicking teacher to the kids implored
To grab out their phones and call 9-1-1
For Tyrone's skin discoloration had begun

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly niglet
Every Thursday he would bring to lunch Wednesdays gigot
The surplus of food and snacks and meals his family could afford
Was purchased with the EBT assistance cash their family would hoard

There he lay, a public pimple now surrounded in a pool of blood
As the air filled with the smell of iron and clay mud
And the responding ambulance had arrived far too late
I guess it was too bad for Tyrone - they could not resuscitate

The infamy of that school year still celebrated every year
By tenured woke teachers who would cower in fear
If ever they heard the phrase that would drive them out of sight
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!“

Hook
by James Wright
James Wright

I was only a young man
In those days. On that evening
The cold was so God damned
Bitter there was nothing.
Nothing. I was in trouble
With a woman, and there was nothing
There but me and dead snow.

I stood on the street corner
In Minneapolis, lashed
This way and that.
Wind rose from some pit,
Hunting me.
Another bus to Saint Paul
Would arrive in three hours,
If I was lucky.

Then the young Sioux
Loomed beside me, his scars
Were just my age.

Ain't got no bus here
A long time, he said.
You got enough money
To get home on?

What did they do
To your hand? I answered.
He raised up his hook into the terrible starlight
And slashed the wind.

Oh, that? he said.
I had a bad time with a woman. Here,
You take this.

Did you ever feel a man hold
Sixty-five cents
In a hook,
And place it
Gently
In your freezing hand?

I took it.
It wasn't the money I needed.
But I took it.