My Yot!
What makes me sprawl on the deck all day,
And at night play “nap” till I lose a lot,
And grub in a catch-who-can sort of a way?
My Yot!
What makes me qualmish, timorous, pale,
(Though rather than own it I’d just be shot)
When the Fay in the wave-crests dips her sails?
My Yot!
What makes me “patter” to skipper and crew