The Seventh Sudanese Vessel

The seventh Sudanese vessel
sailed near the coast of a wind-blown,
sea gull-bombed, colorless lighthouse.
The lighthouse had six bulbs
rapidly rotating on a swivelly axis.
The other six Sudanese vessels cruised the high sea,
not with flax, mind you, but chopping along open water,
skipping along swimmingly.
The seventh Sudanese vessel had no masculine on deck,
only neuter, exceptin' for the captain.
"Is someone paying attention to the heading?" asked the captain
who smoked a fine Turkish cigar. He loved his cigars,
oh, especially the Turkish ones. No one answered the captain's query.
'What a number for a Sudanese ship," laughed the captain.
"Seven, yes. Seven! I'll get a seven tattoo, I think!"
The seventh Sudanese ship spun and drifted and twisted
and rocked and everyone was there. Not everyone
had a Turkish cigar but they were content, regardless.
The lighthouse's six bulbs shone brightly but no one
could tell at high noon and the cigar smoke was thick.
The seventh Sudanese vessel accidentally maneuvered the coral reefs
and the lighthouse helped them as much as possible,
though not so much as the sun.
"Soon we will hit the mother lode," thought the captain
stroking his beard and puffing his cigar.
"Flax and cigars. Yes, Turkish ones."