Pecked out from pages 21-23 of Moby Dick, 1st ed., as reproduced here

just as I thought, a terrible bedfellow;
he's been in a fight, got dreadfully cut,
his face, black stains of some sort or another.
his complexion, a tropical purplish yellow one.

all these ideas pass through me like lightning
his seal-skin wallet — his new beaver hat—
I came nigh singing out with fresh surprise.
I would bolt out but it was the second floor back.

his head- purple as the devil
his chest and arms. As I live, his face;
his back seemed to be as marked as a parcel
he fascinated me by the fireplace.

his fire- a very appropriate little shrine
his fingers sing-song twitched about in time.

I took a couple of passes on my first Queequeg poem. Ishmael's rapid-fire progression from "Help! an Ethnic!!" to "Actually he's kind of a gentleman..." to "You know what this reminds me of? My childhood sleep paralysis" was kind of hard to pace into a coherent series of sonnets.