Crossing the Atlantic slate
by steam an age ago,
Hope and Mrs Petty played
at dice, genteelly so.
Mrs Petty, wearing luck
was rattling for the toss
when told, regretfully, they'd struck
a berg and all was lost.
The aging matron pressed poor Hope
to stay and close the game.
Protocol, she presupposed
affirmed her valid claim.
Minutes pa**ed away, unsaved
before they climbed the stairs.
Lifeboats flecked the chiselled waves.
The canted deck was bare.
Mrs Petty bade, 'No tears
my dear, for life's mixed worth,
and think of all the peaceful years
you spent before your birth'.
A deckchair pile scraped by, still stacked
to blessedly display
the last remaining lifeboat, packed
and set to lower away.
Last on board, the Captain paled,
and clenched the sliding rope.
Naval protocol entailed,
he step aside for Hope.
Mrs Petty waved to Hope.
The lifeboat bobbed and skipped.
The bladed waves sliced in below.
The captain mourned his ship.
'Let's sing for King and country ma'am',
he said, 'before we pray'.
'Nope', she answered, dealing cards,
'Today, I'd sooner play'.