Mother Carey? She's the mother o' the witches <br />'N' all <br />them <br />sort o' rips; <br />She's a fine gell to look at, but the hitch is, <br />She's a sight too fond of ships; <br />She lives upon an iceberg to the norred, <br />'N' her man he's Davy Jones, <br />'N' she combs the weeds upon her forred <br />With pore drowned sailors' bones. <br /> <br />She's the mother o' the wrecks, 'n' the mother <br />Of all big winds as blows; <br />She's up to some deviltry or other <br />When it storms, or sleets, or snows; <br />The noise of the wind's her screamin', <br />'I'm arter a plump, young, fine, <br />Brass-buttoned, beefy-ribbed young seam'n <br />So as me 'n' my mate kin dine.' <br /> <br />She's a hungry old rip 'n' a cruel <br />For sailor-men like we, <br />She's give a many mariners the gruel <br />'N' a long sleep under sea; <br />She's the blood o' many a crew upon her <br />'N' the bones of many a wreck, <br />'N' she's barnacles a-growin' on her <br />'N' shark's teeth round her neck. <br /> <br />I ain't never had no schoolin' <br />Nor read no books like you, <br />But I knows 't ain't healthy to be foolin' <br />With that there gristly two; <br />You're young, you thinks, 'n' you're lairy, <br />But if you're to make old bones, <br />Steer clear, I says, o' Mother Carey, <br />'N' that there Davy Jones.<br /><br />John Masefield<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mother-carey-as-told-me-by-the-bo-sun/
