A shanty, I think it was, some saucy
ditty involving the lonely life of a sailor
and all the concommitant tension
from caulking lusts over long voyages,
you know the type, and it was right then
as you hit the last filthy bridge
with more than ample gusto,
that the meteor hit,
concentric crump of displaced dirt,
you tossed off your feet
headfirst into a paling.
Hence the amnesia
and the lump on your head
and the concertina
clasped in your lovely hands.