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๐ˆ๐ง๐œ๐จ๐ซ๐ซ๐ข๐ ๐ข๐›๐ฅ๐ž

He heads for hell beneath the surging sails;
One soul of tens of thousands bound in ships
East-driven by the roaring forties gales.
His gruel consumed, a brackish brew he sips โ€”
Stares at the deck, and licks his leathered lips.
Sad hopeless thoughts beat in his beaten brain,
As with cold calloused hands his head he grips.
Perhaps he stole a pound of precious grain,
A handkerchief, a coin, a rich manโ€™s cane.
Perhaps he is a villain through and through,
And so deserves this cruel unnatural pain,
Or maybe he is not โ€” whicheverโ€™s true,
Heโ€™s landed on the wrong side of the law.
Heโ€™s branded by the cat for evermore.

โ€” D.N. Oโ€™Brien