There on Nantucket shore, where Protestant women, do not snore, waiting from their cupola, atop a house, in reverence, they’ve sat in pure pew of a Sunday, a religious husband, pure, true, of bliss, not remiss, building the pocket eros to a boil,
Off on a whaling trip, to ambergris, remiss,
To hustle a bustle, a baleen corset, to emphasize rump display, as it blows from the spout,
You’ve got to admit God is good, and sanctions a blow, for he has placed the Humpy head, top of the head, to get ready to go:
Humpbacks come into Boston, and that great fishery, as if Nantucket a whaling port, searching the earth of the silent night where the frequency– the globalist of the ocean depths.
Spam of Human Affection 
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