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John Masefield - Mother Carey (As told Me by the Bo`sun)
Work rating: Medium

Mother Carey? She`s the mother o` the witches
`N` all them sort o` rips;
She`s a fine gell to look at, but the hitch is,
She`s a sight too fond of ships;
She lives upon an iceberg to the norred,
`N` her man he`s Davy Jones,
`N` she combs the weeds upon her forred
With pore drowned sailors` bones.

She`s the mother o` the wrecks, `n` the mother
Of all big winds as blows;
She`s up to some deviltry or other
When it storms, or sleets, or snows;
The noise of the wind`s her screamin`,
`I`m arter a plump, young, fine,
Brass-buttoned, beefy-ribbed young seam`n
So as me `n` my mate kin dine.`

She`s a hungry old rip `n` a cruel
For sailor-men like we,
She`s give a many mariners the gruel
`N` a long sleep under sea;
She`s the blood o` many a crew upon her
`N` the bones of many a wreck,
`N` she`s barnacles a-growin` on her
`N` shark`s teeth round her neck.

I ain`t never had no schoolin`
Nor read no books like you,
But I knows `t ain`t healthy to be foolin`
With that there gristly two;
You`re young, you thinks, `n` you`re lairy,
But if you`re to make old bones,
Steer clear, I says, o` Mother Carey,
`N` that there Davy Jones.
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