He never runs lean on words for Starbuck,

Nor Ahab, but can he spare a few for Stubb or Flask?

Starbuck's melancholic musings, Ahab's

Brain-sick ravings, keep his lily fingers busy—

But what of us who say, Aye, and do their biding?

I will tell you, he has no feeling for us,

We are as invisible to his eyes as the agèd,

As the crone begging alms, as the dog in the gutter.

We ask no questions, though there are questions,

And plenty, such as: what salve vengeance?

All the while he scribbles—'tis weighted his way—

He knows the outcome, and knowing what he knows,

Still cares not—for us. The wake of the Pequod

Runs straighter than the traces behind the likes of him.