We Hoist Bottles to Harness the Wind

Slightly alive in this world of furled sails
We nail plastic and glass to the mast.
No friend is the wind who comes now and again
Just to jest at our stagnant distress.

That cursed captain, he said "Listen well, all ye dead,
Land's a treasure, and I am the Key.
Hoist yer sails in wind gales that could empty the sea
But you'll ne'er budge an inch without me."

Childish riddles as these to my ears spoke disease;
Such a sailor as I earns his keep,
Yet he spoke as though toils would earn me no spoils
So I slit his damned throat in his sleep.

"Call me dead man again. You can die in my stead."
Snickered I as his pillow turned red.

Yet it seems he spoke truth, for now nothing we do
Moves our bow any nearer to home.
We've done all that we could to bring land to this wood,
Not a hint of slight progress we've known.

I've lost all hope in sails, they've failed time and again;
We hoist bottles to harness the wind.