Unfinished: The Ship Beelzebub

I cannot tonight finish this poem:

Now breaking through the misty sea
with scores of seagulls merrily
as like when kings their servants send
to cry his proach to any friend,
or to his foe, should one be near,
the cry’s to all, the cry is clear,
the seagulls cry the coming of
the dreaded ship, Beelzebub.

A ship, you think, and like as naught
as any ship subject to rot,
that is to time, and to decay
—all works of man last but a day—
and yet it is, the tale is told,
that one ship, she will never mold,
but through all time is searching of
the soul to sail Beelzebub.

She’s tired of one! Look at him now!
And there he is, cast to her prow!
The birds all peck and eat what’s left,
stripping the figurehead bereft.
Anon, our cove she’ll come and hit;
running aground she’ll carve a pit
into the sandy beaches of
this shore, the shore o’Beelzebub.

Anon, perchance a man walks by
and sees the tattered banners fly
within the breeze blowing to sea,
and longs—he longs—to be set free.
He climbs down to the wrecked timber,
and from the cold he soon shivers.
But far too late, he’ll then learn of
the cruel, cunning Beelzebub.