On we went wailing away at the oars
And steered into the strait, dire Scylla to port
And to starboard the wrathspawned seascourge Charybdis
Swallowing the salt tide smashing all courage
And belching it back: a boiling kettle
Seething over flames. The spume she spewed
Went spraying the crests of cliffs on the narrows.
When she s**ed down the sea you could see her roiling,
Hear the roar of the rock all round, as the sand
Gaped black from bedrock. My men blanched in trauma,
Eyes fixed on that d**hmaw, in fear of glutting.
And then Scylla struck, whisked up six of my men,
Our six strongest hands. As I spun my eyes aft
At good craft and dear crew I caught sight of their feet
And hands adangle overhead. Their voices
Cried out in hellhorror, calling me by name
That one last time. The way a fisherman
Crouched on a headland casting his fell bait,
His hook sheathed in horn, in his hands feels the thrash
Of a fish on his rod and rips it from the waves
To wriggle through the air, so my writhing men
Cruelly were carried to the cavern's mouth.
And there in her den she dined on them them raw,
My six toughest men, screaming and reaching
Their arms toward me in an endlife grapple
As a grisly grief gashed my spirit.
I witnessed naught worse in my warring heart
In all my quests across the strange sea.