The Seadog Gentleman

The Drinker (date unknown) by Jules Rousset

The sting of morning in my eyes—awake.

Acrid my gut churns tight with savage ache.

“Do today I seek my ocean mistress?”

I do, the call of wary gulls in my wake.

Cresting high, my fair trove of boats below,

I strut. Saunter. What beggar? Who wino?

Not I for one part in a million.

Barefoot I come; it is my seaside show.

“Hello, ladies. What fine weather He’s made.”

The brine does wonders for dry week’s pomade.

Her surf paws for me, whispers my name.

“Patience, Love, patience. Why rush a parade?”

“Say, Fisherman”—Jeeves is it?—“spare a cod?”

The head, the tail. splash. “All for you,” I nod.

Her young horizon blushes mother of pearl.

The fading moon squints as the eye of God.

As well it should for, loin first, I fall to.

She is dined. I, wined. This is nothing new.

Afterall, He has made her wet, not me.

Call me the Seadog Gentleman, damn you.