The wind pipes and hoots her cries of joy.
The trees twist and quiver as she passes.
She tears the hair of hilltops
and ruffles the fur of a cattail marsh.
The sailor man takes up her offer,
a sup and turn round the ballroom,
where's the harm?
In the middle of a spirited polka
she flips her petticoat,
tosses him over her shoulder,
and three days hence
he drags himself up on a deserted beach,
aching sick, bloodshot and bone weary.
Of such breezy ladies are sea-stories told.
Speak no ill of her.
She's a harsh mistress
who hears your grumbles
and will not hesitate
to slap your cap off,
drive cold sleet down your back,
and sting you with the granules of Adam.