We’re each more than the sum of our parts. Fine writing speaks between the lines; a limerick says more than its AABBA five part rhyme. Feast your eyes on the parts below, the activity on this behemoth. Who might she be?

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Access to or from gravelly fun, controlled by the helmeted crewman at the top of the passageway? No one boards this  ship by me unless …

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Another crewman leans over the coaming and looks into the hold. What does +40,000 tons of gravel look like, smell like? Notice the hatch cover size. To his right a large clamshell bucket is poised to drop gravel into a hopper. What’s that blue compartment at the lower leftside of the foto?

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WC! Suppose that’s for a yard crew? And those front-end loaders, yard machinery as well, offloaded by crane before leaving the dock or permanent fixtures of the vessel working in the hold during loading?

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The lifeboat, as always, preferably filled only with potential energy for freefall. Food and drink in the larder?

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And such curves, complex ones, as Real Ships Have. Almost as sweet as on a sailing yacht. A conventional rudder post. No azipods here.

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Of course you can see the rest after looking only at these fractions. You’ve seen the bulbous bow months ago. It’s my favorite blog partner in Brooklyn and one of the best dancers out of the Maritimes.

Since rumor has it Tug44 will soon post fotos of her, I offer a challenge: bulker poetry. And to keep it lowbrow, the genre should be limerick. Extra recognition for an accompanying tune. Fusion is acceptable also, as in neopunk limerick or reggae limerick. Any language from Assamese to Zulu, but the subject is Alice.

“There came a belle bulker named Alice . . .

or something.

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