Cruisin’ out there on the ocean blue,
feelin’ kinda sick, ready to spew.
I’m standing at the rail in stormy weather.
A dram of Dramamine, I might feel better.,
This ain’t the place I want to be, guts
movin’…peristaltic avenue
opens, and reverse motion ensues.

I’d better head to the infirmary,
or better, yet go to the pharmacy
and get a potion with which I can treat this
spewing right into the ocean blue,
doin’ what I don’t want: blue-pollute.
Gusts blow, chunks blow.

Hope I don’t spend all day this tummy way.
I’m beyond gagging…add to ocean spray.
Wish we had never said, “Anchors aweigh.”
Barfing—must nix this spree, or anorexic be.

Soothin’ finally are my guts; resume
boozin’ till again I leave the room
to deck…blows, blows.

Spewin'—up come more chunks.