"That's not the way we men make love, my friend."
The Captain's words on open intercom
astound the crew at Mass, make Chaplain's thin
hair stand on end as if a whistling bomb
had whispered up his nape. His famed aplomb
recedeth like his part. "The knave is pissed,"
he hisses loud but rising winds persist
and hurl his words to God above who bids
the Chaplain's mind know peace: it seems he's missed
that Captain but harangues his tank of squids.