HMS Beckham
¶ 1
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Is this the foot that launched a thousand kicks?
Now forlorn failed and land locked lost,
Rotting like an old beached hulk upon the sands of time,
No longer sailing through the Group of Death,
With a high step instep fleeting plimsoll line,
Nor shooting like a star across the heavens
With a lodestar certain compass
And a dead true reckoning for the opposition.
But stop! I hear the sound of dry dock rivets
And hammers cracking plaster breaking,
For I can see so clearly from the fo’c’s’le ,
A renovated Beckham metatarsal.
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