I wrote this after reading Longfellow's "Wreck of the Hesperus." It helps to have a dictionary handy.
The Wreck of the Inarticulate
That sailed the ocean blue — A schooner, brig, or barquentine, Skippèr and crew were fearless men Was total ignorance about Jibs and stu’n’s’ls, martingales, Braces, ratlines, gaffs and stays — They knew it all as “stuff.” Scuttle, course, and mizzenmast, To them, were all the same. They cheesed a Flemish coil down, And so, one bleak December morn, As the gales began to blow, And every blessèd man on deck The skipper called upon them all To save the found’ring rig: “Bring the pointy part around, And hoist the thingamajig!” Every man looked back at him With vacant, blinking eyes, Uncertain what to make of his Obscure, despèrate cries. The skipper shook his fist and thundered, Turn the what’s-is over there! Every man looked back at him As swells and billows tossed the ship And drove it toward the shore. The skipper gave it one more shot, His last ’twas ever heard: “Helmsman, hold those things and spin the — Darn it! What’s the word?” Just then a wave loomed overhead And with a deaf’ning roar, It swept the skipper and his crew From what they called the “floor.” At last, the rush of breakers Made music for the rocks that stove What real tars call the “hull.” For weeks thereafter, passengers Saw, floating mid the ship’s debris, With all her crew and cargo. Lord save us from chagrin like that