Twillingate

We all end up badly and
it's not the season nor the salt
rather, I suspect but type of gherkin used.
We all end, badly, at least
the more modest of us do.
the old salts they dine on
limericks anyways.
We all end up, sadly, the distances
and the wiles only last up,
sideways, and barely with
the edge-ways of a smile.
Some of us, sadly,
limit our losses
call off the posse
quit deals, the
quicksilver steals.
Some of us, gladly,
surrender or catch
a slow boat to Twillingate,
if not willingly,
at least painstakingly.