That winter evening on Lake Michigan,
the Black Ship sailed water clear as vodka—
from Muskegon to Sheboygan.
The Big Lake was placid and clean.
My old man said the sun
had a score to settle with Wisconsin.
He said: Don't buy no hope from that
long shot. He said all kinds of things
I don't think you need to know.
The smallest sparks
fell from his Lucky Strike.
That was five years
before he quit smoking.
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