Not for the weak of heart, this watery confinement –
with brine-coated tongues and surly dispositions, went
the submarine crew to their depths, braved the absence
of daylight, sold their souls to Poseidon’s entombment.
Some say it was the fumes, sulphurous as Hell’s own funk
that warped the minds of hardy men, robbed them of their spunk –
tales of lily-white maidens, whose melodic tunes wiled,
lured spirits from their nests, lifeless corpses in their bunk.