It really is something of a song, well, not quite for all occasions, but, rather, with myriad suitable applications. Choose your metaphor; the Captain has already picked his poison.
Go and tell the Captain, waves are growing high, and anyone washed overboard, leave them here to die. Go, now, tell his mistress, who lies in sheets of wine, the candles and the invocations will not bring down the tide. He’s abandoned any hope of life now; the endless storms that rage upon us grow from ripples in his mind. He has chosen darkness over light now; mistress and crew have lied and left him to be cold.
This Is 