I knew an old man, a talker was he
twould reminice of the old days when he was at sea
weave fanciful tales of battles he'd won.
The women entranced, the valliant regales
This kindly old gent with wizened old eyes
sat boney and threadbare drinking his rye
and when the young sprites would tattle anew
he'd lift up a brow, a new tale he'd spew
The lovable oaf both harmless and daft
telling tall tales and legends of craft
we all heard his follies now and again
we gathered round him for a well toddled laugh
One day he joined us for a friendly about
when right suddenly a dire naultical eye flew out
the kindly old gent looked up from his brew
and drover her ashore, like no man could do.
We all stared in awe at this mythical man
amazed that the rudder obeyed his old hand.
and when we returned to the brew pub that night
we raised a glass to the gent in new light.
No longer was he a weaver of tales
his battles recounted his prowess regaled.
and when the young lads besmirked a far lore
a nudge and a whisper and their eyes hit the floor.
For no longer before us did a withered man wait
For now in our midsts was a nautical great
no longer amused by a fanciful lyre
his tall tales regailed upon us inspire