Through no fault of your own,

you appear to be oscillating.

It truly is a terrible state of affairs

to never quite get your bearings,

my condolences.

They say, in due time,

you will sprout sea legs —

but even then

I’d probably end up with

two left-flippers.

Half-past 10

and I’m hugging the mast,

spiralling,

spiralling.

Let’s get down to brass tacks,

I’m about to spill my guts out.

I, sea cucumber,

have gone fishing

with my good chums —

but all I caught was nausea.

Ho-hum.

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