It feels brave to sail a ghostly
galleon
Across purple seas but the day
comes
When the owner wants profit, not
romance;
The market in gypsy ribbons is
depressed
There are few buyers for hair like
moldy hay.
Years ago such ships in lean times
Might ferry ghosts across the
Channel.
Frenchmen – you can look this up –
Used to itch to leave France when they died;
Caesar saw their ghosts crowding
the sides
Of vessels that sat low in the
water.
What will our deceased wives say
If we come back after so many
years
Without money, without songs,
Our pockets stuffed only with
ribbons?
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