Set course for Port Trigellian across a brindled sea,
with four o’clocks to windward and bright marigolds alee.
A morning-glory banner flies atop a larkspur mast.
The sheet-sails billow overhead; the wind is running fast.
The helmsman’s firm hand guides our ship; the clouds go scudding by.
We chant a song of war with iris-cutlasses held high.
Whatever foe awaits us, and however great the cost,
we sail to free Trigellian before the daylight’s lost.
Aloft, the lookout calls alert as landfall’s drawing near,
around the point, into the harbor, angle for the pier.
The dandelion troops, crouched low, are ranked around the bay;
with cannon blasts, from water guns, we blow them all away!
We storm ashore and, street-by-street, advance into the town;
our enemies have had enough and throw their weapons down.
But over crying, cheering throngs we heed our momma’s call,
’cause Daddy’s home from work, and he brought dinner from the mall.