Mariners of a long ago dead time, passed idle hours;
With knots and skrimshaw skills.
Intricately woven ropes and fine lines etched in tooth and bone;
The tall masts of their wooden ships against the sunset sky.

Silhouetted metronomes moving in the swells;
As if keeping time to match the ships own bells.
And as the day's light diminished, the seaman's hands;
Another skrimshaw project  finished.

Stories from that bygone day, which may still be read today.
Now in two thousand three, new scrimshaw marking read,
Etched in the bones of humans, recently found dead.

They tell tales of weapons used, serrated blade or axe,
Even chain saws used in some attacks.
Detectives sail a sea of clues, searching for the truth,
The skrimshaw tells its story, in which lies the proof.

Lines and marks in bone white and dried blood blacks,
A tale of murder this, etched in gruesome facts.
The knots of ligatures speak to them as well,
Showing the victims torment, this very private hell.

Cast off the inconclusive, the unsubstantiated,
This is the time, the chance for which the body waited.
Embark  on a stead fast journey to make the guilty pay,
Follow your moral compass, and you will not drift astray.

Reader of the skrimshaw, mariner of the law.

KOTAH.

Note. To see an example of Skrimshaw work, left click on the ship above (only in IE) .