Bellow, and bid our father, the sea
king, rise up from the depths, full-
foul in his fury, black waves
teeming with salt-foam, to smother
this OLD WENCH with pungent
slime!
to choke ye, engorging yer
organs till ye turn blue and
bloated with bilge and brine and
can scream no more... only when,
she, crowned in cockle shells with
slithering tentacled tail and
steaming beard, takes up her fell,
be-finnèd arm, her coral-tined
trident screeches banshee-like in
the tempest and runs you through
the gullet, bursting ye, a bulging
bladder no more, but a blasted
bloody film now.
Leaving nothing for
the Harpies and the souls of dead
sailors to peck and claw and feed
upon, only to be lapped up and
swallowed by the infinite waters of
the dread emperor himself,
forgotten to any man, to any time,
forgotten to any god or devil,
forgotten even to the sea... for
any stuff or part of Oprah, even
any scantling of your soul,
And Oprah is now no more, but is now itself the sea.
