The gods be good, ah say. It ne'er puzzles me that old, and fleetin', theological wildflowers grow up in me when I see that sunrise. Yar, the gods be good.
Yar, the god be good as the salmon run, and the gods be good as they flop on the deck of the boat. The gods be good as my wooden mallet strikes with a wet smack on a fish's brow. The gods be good when my hands are wet with blood, and guts, and stink, and silver scales.
The gods be good in the hunt, in the takin', and the empty hours when the huntin' and the takin' are scarce.
Yar, the gods be good.
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