The Ticonderoga

Old ship, give me your hands.
I'm the cape that came to crush and snag you on my sands.
Below the ocean, and from my point of view,
You were always drinking, and drunk well before noon,
And dreaming on my pillow of high tide.
But I'd allow you.

Old friend, give me back my hands.
I'm the crutch that's missing, and you're the crippled little lamb.
Those claws will get you; those teeth will take your life,
But you won't know what's missing.
This gift ain't giving. This wolf ain't worth the fight.