We were finally getting our bearings
Cruising on the Bering Seas.
Strolling the deck with my chaste aunt,
Her cat chased ants, as you please.
We gossiped a little, about that vile singer,
A staid bass who chose to stay base!
"He ate eight fryers with friars and liars,
"That man," sniffed my kin,
"Just does NOT know his place."
"I can't stand anymore," as she stood on the stair,
Staring a hole through the whole of that lad.
"My word!" screetched my aunt,
"But you're BAD!"
"I hope that the scope of your dope ring is small, sir,
"And I'll plead with you: Stop wearing plaid!"
The crew's port of call
On this cruise was then reached.
Madam took Adam in hand.
"I hope that this scoundrel will finally be beached! "
And she grandly debarked (with her dogs) to the sand.