Hark, come ye and hear my tale
Of the splendors of the deep.
That sound, be it the wind in wail
From miles off do they creep.

Blue, eternal waves do roll
Seeking the brine on the shore.
Tell me, does this not have a soul,
Holding ancient songs of lore.

Lo, the tone of my saxophone
Echoes over salty spray.
The whales answer me with a drone.
And each day I live this way.

O, the songs do come and go,
Such as the boy of this home.
Yes Ness, who did such grow
That he did stop that foam.

Foam, malicious and evil,
That though it could consume Earth.
Gigyas, the name that makes me still
It was not of holy birth.

And, I gaze out at the sea,
Knowing that this had saved
The world; this, the memory
Of he who his own life braved.