'O boy, tho' thou art young and proud,
I see the place where thou wilt lie.
'The sands and yeasty surges mix
In caves about the dreary bay,
And on thy ribs the limpet sticks,
And in they heart the scrawl shall play.'
My inaugural Tennyson drawing depicts a sailor boy lying dead in the surf--you will have to suspend your disbelief a bit here, because the sailor boy in my picture is not an actual boy, but instead a superbly wrinkle-faced newborn doll. The limpets stick to his ribs, and the scrawl plays in his heart, as you can see from the totally bad handwriting I used to write FUN TIME large across the misplaced organ itself. Yeasty surges roil above him--you can tell they are yeasty because representations of the chemical composition of the fine product Monistat bob up and down between them, going quietly about their cunty work.