There’s a tale from the deep that the old salts say,

Of a shitbag sailor who stunk of skivvies underway.

He snuck to the outboard to dodge work all day,

With an apple he stole and plans to stray.

He took one bite, curled up, and crashed,

While the rest of the crew fought, scrambled, and dashed.

The alarms screamed loud, the lights shone hallow red,

But he snored through it all ‘til the whole ship was dead.

Now he floats in the dark with a half-chewed core,

Not living, not dead, just ever rotting offshore.

Twisted by pressure, cursed by the deep,

He hunts the lazy who perished lame from sleep.

Dozed off in shaft alley? HA, Blended by the screw!

Now you're spread on the bulkhead like bilge beef stew.

He’ll drag you down, underway every day,

Where sleep is a myth and pain is pay.

But one thing keeps that bastard at bay…

The crisp, sharp taste of an apple a day.

We trapped it in pouches, sealed it tight,

A flavor so bold, it fights off the night.

Hard Cored Apple. Stay alert. Stay alive.