All his eyes were beautiful, most a piercing blue, and the Zong sang songs like ringing gongs that could turn a man to goo.
He lived in secret splendor on the sea’s one rocky tooth, and he made pies from days gone by and drank his sweet vermouth.
Then one day came a sea-ship tall with sails of scripted font; it read like an eviction note all gauzy white and gaunt.
“The Zong who sings the ringing song you must set yourself afloat, leave the rock by six o’clock” read the note upon the boat.
The Zong laughed like a symphony whose conductor had gone mad; the sound of it caused the sea to split and woke the Zong’s own dad.
The Dad rose like a second sun on the far edge of the sea, and the boat whose note was vainly wrote could not but turn and flee.