A Flying Dutchman in her progress over the waves
of, not water, but a thicker slish,
Is this vessel known as MOAB to her hardy crew.
Led not by William Shatner (praise the Lord)
But by a team of wordsmith anarchists,
Mother is a different kind of ship than those that sail the sea.

Afloat in virtual dimensions,
Adrift on sparking webs
That in their crazy angles, crooked ways,
Resemble more a labyrinth of odd canals
Than open ocean,
This stalwart Mother floating aimless through the maze
of little twisting passages, all alike,
Will sometimes leave a treasure in a dead-end hall:
Some poetic gem or tricksy verse
Announcing milestones of Kay.
These unpraised songs are left as writing on a wall—
Figurative sconces filled with shining verse,
Illuminating dark recesses where dauntless sailors
Need not explore.

For there are wild apes in these ways,
Monsters lurking in the wine-dark sea,
Freakish duck-dogs quarking in the void
And far too many frayed skeins
For any traveler to follow without fear
Of strangulation, emasculation, decapitation or worse.

So when we see another stanza in the MOAB Poem,
It's like a torch lit in the dark, a couplet signifying "end of scene."
And we can turn and sail another way, as those who turn in sleep begin another dream.

Eiseley