Rime Of The Modern Oilman

The wind here blows twice a day
From the blades of a chopper that comes and leaves-
The only time the ocean ebbs or heaves,
As the men that pray are whisk'd away.

On-board come fresh muscles and blood
With pumping hearts which yearn to return-
As the wheels turn and the oils burn;
As the drill-bit churns out the ocean's mud.

The show must go on - come sun or rains
As the world can't be of oil starved
Even if machines conk or arms be half'd
Or if man o'erboard to seek mermaidens.

There are pigeons on this floating pile of steel
Unreal birds which have never sighted land
They were born here, they will die here and
They'll never be birds whose chirps are real.

Men, unlike birds, have at least the freedom-dream
Through TeleVs, telephones and data-cords,
Lost in the voices of lovers, wives and wards
And in the occasional laugh at an internet meme.

As the clock ticks a month, routine sets in
The drills go on and bodies are toned
But too long at sea and the mind is torn
As the engine's sound is your merriest din.

Eventually tired of the same porks, chickens, beefs
Your Cap'n calls - 'Go home, now you may.'
For the wind here still blows twice a day
From the blades of a chopper that comes and leaves.