On we went wailing　away at the oars
And steered into the strait,　dire Scylla to port
And to starboard the wrathspawned　seascourge Charybdis
Swallowing the salt tide　smashing all courage
And belching it back:　a boiling kettle
Seething over flames.　The spume she spewed
Went spraying the crests　of cliffs on the narrows.
When she sucked down the sea　you could see her roiling,
Hear the roar of the rock　all round, as the sand
Gaped black from bedrock.　My men blanched in trauma,
Eyes fixed on that deathmaw,　in fear of glutting.
And then Scylla struck,　whisked up six of my men,
Our six strongest hands.　As I spun my eyes aft
At good craft and dear crew　I caught sight of their feet
And hands adangle　overhead. Their voices
Cried out in hellhorror,　calling me by name
That one last time.　The way a fisherman
Crouched on a headland　casting his fell bait,
His hook sheathed in horn,　in his hands feels the thrash
Of a fish on his rod　and rips it from the waves
To wriggle through the air,　so my writhing men
Cruelly were carried　to the cavern's mouth.
And there in her den　she dined on them them raw,
My six toughest men,　screaming and reaching
Their arms toward me　in an endlife grapple
As a grisly grief　gashed my spirit.
I witnessed naught worse　in my warring heart
In all my quests　across the strange sea.