Come, sail, let us go ways. What encounters will make our days?
Wind blows north: meet snowy beasts who relay stories of their exodus from the southern pole, where waddling fomenters refused predatory company eons ago.
Wind blows east: drop anchor off an isle of Greece in order to soak up just enough sun such that the tones of beach’s rachel grains agree with its sailor-hun.
Wind blows west: stepping off the gunwale into the land of mammonism’s lure, mammoth problems plague the people of less success, rendering extinct their ability to endure.
Wind blows south: squawking emperors offer rebuttal to those tales from realm of Santa and Steve, conjecturing that lost in translation were their tones, where each please sounded like a peeve.
Well, sail, that was a trek. Let us now rest, you on mast and I on deck. ; )