Oh, would you just give me a straw mat at the bow,
flaps above it would hiss from spray slap.
Fire would burst between two stones,
above it a pot would sing empty bubbles.
Oh, if you’d show me the dirty deck boy,
and give me a wood plank for a table, simple sail would be tablecloth,
a game of “push-pull”, a whistle,
the sailors’ talk.
Such luck happened to me
to me, the guy who likes simple things