The shattering jeroboam’s frothy white squirt against the sheer continental steel of the hull. A dwarfed, ignominious marker of diminished imperial puissance. An overdue premature ejaculation, since  there aren’t even engines yet fitted into the hulking hollow husk. The remaining shard of the bottle dangling from the cable, bobbing against the receding keel, like struggling to pinion the hasp of a broach.
The metallic monolith slithers down the wooden logs into the river. Honouring the glacial pace of retooling, unionised fidelity to the ribs of the antediluvian steel womb it was pressed from. Larger scale male encomium to the frugality of the household mangle. Jagged, homespun industrial Victoriana in an incipient age of laser torches and robot arms. 
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As the vessel breasts the water, kissed not by the Asti-Spume-Mante, but clinched in the blood of its riveters. Flesh seared by the forge’s sparks. Skin inadvertently welded into the plates of the ship, Siemens’ seamen. Caulked snug to seal the seaworthiness with worthless lives. Involuntarily press-ganged between the metal rollers. Enfolded like ectopic embryos, immured behind birthing canal steel. The figurehead prow of old moving aft. Skeletons and calcified limbs disinterred when the ship is broken down for scrap fifty years hence. Blood dried the same colour as rust.