Thanks to Lyra I finally composed the ballad I always wanted to..Interpretations are welcome..
The Voyagers'RequiemOn the rocks of Normandy lies this heroes' tale,
Where on the shore they found a wooden bale.
O.M.S.413 lies on the bed in a deep slumber,
In her womb sleeps a heartless plunder.
A deep growl rises from these eerie caves,
The heroes must be turning in their graves.
For on the day Britain was under war,
And Churchill spoke about our finest hour,
A terrible sceptre haunted the deck's rampart,
Conspiring silently to blow the brothers apart.
Fine men they were, of the most noble steed,
Long they had travelled for this honourable deed.
Ardous was their path, for it was alive,
With the stench of death's ugly swive.
They called them sailors, and they were men,
Every bar on the harbour was their pen.
They laughed, they cried,they made love,
With every lovely maiden, eighteen or above.
From old wizened deckhands to valiant marksman,
There was a flavour for every discerning woman.
They were proud and loving, with hearts of gold.
Oh! Could this tragedy be ever foretold ?
The lull lay heavy across the silent night,
The fog chilled their bones with trembling delight.
Their hearts were clouded with the impending doom,
A breathlessness engulfed their heady gloom.
Oh dont get me wrong, but sometimes they do,
We all pine for the ones we love,we really do.
As we worry about our sweetheart and our nine yr old,
Just like so, they had their hearts out in the dreary cold.
Their Mother called them to save her honour.
Their children called to tuck them in, this late hour.
And as fear and doubt circled around the deck,
Death rubbed its hands to keep the cold in check.
Two distinct crashes pierced the spooky air around,
The pounding of mortar was the first, on the ground,
Water breaking on the rock like Church bells was one,
Which one was more dreadful of this knew none.
For the ground meant death, painful, liberating and quick.
The redemption would be worth every drop of blood, so thick.
The church bells sounded out a miserable funeral.
But they were Voyagers, they could survive this rocky burial.
Caught between them devils and a watery grave,
They mustered all the courage they could save.
And chose the path less travelled that day.
It wasnt the beaches, how could you say ?
They shivered, trembled and lashed out at their puny selves,
As they heard the real heroes going to death like the elves.
Their hearts were full of shame, that held no quarter,
The pen was emptying up,running away from slaughter.
The water was still while it ran in deep turrets.
Beneath its icy glass it kept dark secrets.
The cowards trusted the water more, for it was just an old hag.
Oh how mistaken they were, it turned out to be the Devil in drag!
As shallow as their honour, as wily as a conjuror,
The water swept itself off their miserable stupor.
It wasn't only the sea that led them to their graves,
Even He ensured, the wind crashed into the yellow knaves.
The ship ran aground and smashed into the jagged rocks.
Every single man was thrown around like sacks in the docks.
The cockiness had taken the better, of the crowd so rotten.
For lying in the womb, slept gunpowder forgotten.
Neither the sea, nor land nor a soldier's bullet killed them.
'Twas the hot explosion of their Mother's wrath that maimed them.
But Fate had even terrible plans for these men, no think not.
Heroes killed in action was what their peers thought.
And the one's who survived to live this day, to collect their decorations,
Sleep as fitfully as the dead in their graves,accussed of somnabulations.
For in their very false honour and actions bereft of any scrotal,
Their deaths and survivals meant the Voyagers were just mortal.
