It is the Seattle Mariners,
And they stoppeth one of three.
‘By thy short black beard and intense eyes,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
The pub’s doors are opened wide,
And I am next of tab;
My friends are met, the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.’
They hold him with a skinny hand,
‘There was a game,’ quoth he.
‘Hold off! unhand me, bearded loon!’
Eftsoons their hand dropt he.
They hold him with their intense eyes-
the Pub-Goer stood still,
And listens like a three years’ child:
The Mariners hath their will.
The Pub-Goer sat on a stone:
Forced to listen by a curse
And thus spake on that ancient team,
The bright-eyed Mariners.