She took’em all, big and small;
Her bosom adorned with floating corpses.
The men of the sea succumbed to her wills,
Whilst the tempest raged and their vessel caved.
The carrion was her’s to keep,
A trophy for her winged children;
10 moons later the wood washed ashore,
A kingdom devoid of its beloved subjects.
100 moons later the wood turned to dust,
The screams muffled by rusty nails.
1000 moons later the wood would be gone,
And along with it, the memories of screaming corpses.