Ron, my favorite sailing man, wrotelogs that were laconic
of all that happened on his boat--he could be quite the comic.
One cruise he led was cut quite short.The explanation read
in six terse words of his report--'Cook found dead in the head'.

I asked him could he please explainso curt an epitaph,
and though I hate to be profaneI couldn't help but laugh.
The cook jumped ship in Galveston.He'd had it with the crabs
that snuggled up when day was done.His heir was hard to nab.

They combed the bars and waterside and there they found their man--
a trifle on the older side,but handy with canned spam.
His dinners were not haute cuisineand sometimes caused the runs.
But he kept his nails and kitchen clean--drank Nyquil for his fun.

On Christmas Day the crew kicked back--playing cards, drinking beer.
But when they called for a noontide snack,Cookie failed to appear.
When nighttime pressed and Cook refusedto materialize,
though drunk and just a bit confusedthey feared for his demise.

They searched to find where Cook had flown--the head last place to look.
They found him dead upon the throne,holding his favorite book.
They shut the door and finished their game,then sailed back to port.
Ron wrote down those six short words,completing his report.

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