The Sailor and the Sea

Soil meant for other boots leads my every way
Soil that for some kindle prospect, but take the fire from me
Whose furnace glows asunder blue graves and long darkness
I wither at their soil and toil for my Sea
Their looking on from pubs and bays, my fire their eyes receive
Breathing cold words into my furnace
Yet they cannot take the fire from me
Kindled in darkness, kindled at sea
Sailing with angels atop a cold dead wilderness
Honest life is where too my grave will be

The Sea his mad release
they say, by eyes of judgement.
Those prospectors alike and
without greatness, oh precious island of dirt.
But the few mine passionate and deep
longing that madness is great

"One hundred bottles of beer-on-the wall, one hundred bottles of beer,
you take one down, and pass it around . . ninety-nine bottles of beer on the
wall . ."

In time, the saltwater . . becomes his crutch,
He knows he doesn't need people . . very much,
His boots and land . . . they seldom touch,
He loves the wind . . the waves . . and such.

When he is old and withered, and the sea-legs fail,
He'll sink below the water . . . in honor.