Cargo

Really don't mind if your love isn't sweet,
the shrouds I should tug on are the lungs that I spit.
And the mouth that I own doesn't bloat all the crew,
for I call only your name - build the hull, traced the myth.

Don't you tell me now that my keel doesn't strip
to the quarterdeck puffing, far from freedom in the west.
Don't you ask me how my mast plants a maze
because it leeches to your marrow, girl, it mustn't be blown away.

Will you take me as I am if my cabin doesn't suit?
If my rudder rubs your slaving muscle - you're more than I can chew.
I tingle at the soured cream of fishing on your seat
because my spine is lost seething in this jacket culling wheat.