A/N: Written in the point of view of a sailor, not me. Written in good ol' Calc, of course.

Nonchalance

Floating by the riverside
A young maiden hums along
Picking daisies in the flowing tide
As she sings her siren song.
Her dark hair tumbles on her shoulders,
Like long grass cascading on the hills.
Her features warm as she grows daily colder,
Singing that pretty song that kills.
Alas, I once knew a man
Who had fallen to her art;
He never fell in love again,
For she had ripped his heart.
Another still did take the chance
And offered her a ring—
But she, in scornful nonchalance,
Did none but shrug and sing.
I myself am lulléd in,
But I have half a brain.
I, afar, admire her, the prize I cannot win,
To hear her sing again.