Pitchers of dark ale

It was evident our coordinates entered
in a reality where odd entities reflected
because the captain's voice deflected,
an' started singing Verdi bass and stentor.

The destination was a port of allegiance
so, we responded to the notion veering;
Saint Nicolas was on the rudder steering,
with the ship cunning to void attendance.

Quoiled up round was our blurred scope,
in open seas we egressed, ropes to hale,
drunk by overflown pitchers of dark ale,
communicating in a woozy speech trope.

With minds numb we composed lyrics,
our hoarse voices sang to sea naiads;
where pretty nymphs heard such bards,
on bass gargle nonsense of sot freaks?

The ship was going happy like a cradle,
seesawing on waves with deleted worry;
how else could we address to a blurry,
a dull horizon above tricky depths hadal?

We sang and sang in blear mist forever,
ten eons passed since we began drinking,
dark ale was thirstily in mouths sinking,
Sirens were laughing with time to sever.
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hadal = adjective: relating to the deepest

parts of the ocean (below 6000 meters)