Fans of the cinema, unconcerned with the unremarkable future of a sunken treasure chest,
What fantastic swashbuckling,
Would manifest such high-end pre-fab home for eels?

Who fumbled their fair shake, shambling to the watery valleys?

O, to through by the cutlass.
As the director’s cut administered,
And mouths hush, ears grow tall,
We might hear his last word, a period-correct rebuking of his violent end, a torrent in sheets of apoplectic spittle,
But better to hear the wailing of his inner-heart, his final muted ruminations of growing up poor with an absent father.

Another sunken treasure, unclaimed, bound to thoughtlessness.

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