Canonical to redirect

Sleep came hard to a Carpathian bear I met, so I read him my poems. He was out by the second page. He slept all winter, and I took his cave. In April he rose, thanked me kindly, and asked for the rest, and I ran for my life.

Sharks fear only one thing, and that is my singing. I fell from a ship near Bermuda and struck up a hymn. Forty fins turned and sped away. One brave young fish stayed for the second verse, and the doctors tell me he has never been the same.

Arctic sailors still speak of the iceberg I rented. It was a fine, roomy thing with a view. I furnished it, hung some pictures, and drifted toward Lisbon in comfort. Each day my parlor grew smaller. I stepped ashore holding only my teacup, a chair leg, and the deed.

Onions won me a wife. I peeled one in front of her father, and the old miser wept for the first time in his life. He gave me her hand, her dowry, and the key to the pantry. I still keep the onion in a velvet box.

Whales snore, as any sailor knows, but one in the North Sea kept our whole ship awake. I rowed.