Let Neptune strike ye dead, Winslow!

Haaaaark! Hark, Triton! Hark!

Bellow, bid our father, the sea king, rise from the depths, full foul

in his fury, black waves teeming with salt-foam, to smother

this young mouth with pungent slime to choke ye, engorging your organs till ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more only when he, crowned in cockle shells with

slithering tentacled tail and steaming beard,

take up his fell, be-finnèd arm — his coral-tined trident

screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet,

bursting ye, a bulging bladder no more,

but a blasted bloody film now — a 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 Winslow, even

any scantling of your soul, is Winslow no more, but is now itself

the sea.