Because she’s insured at Lloyd’s.
I saw her ribs, where redly through
The sun shone like a fire.
Is that shipowner all a do?
And is that death, and can the two
Against poor tars conspire?
His ships are sped—they’re booked at sea,
He looks, that fellow, for gold.
He’s on them a good insurance fee,
And deuce a bit for the crew cares he