POEM
The old sailor
The old man sat at his window
And gazed at the harbour below
A stout ship riding safe at her anchor
While all around the tumult did blow
How he longed to set sail aboard her
Feel the crash of the waves on the keel
While he strode the shuddering timbers
And the helmsman clung fast to the wheel
How he loved the breath of the tempest
With the blast of the wind in his face
The shriek of the storm in the rigging
In his mind there was no finer place
He had sailed many times to the Indies
Balboa, Calcutta, and Maine
And through the storm shredded waters
He had sailed safely homeward again
There was ne’er a storm that could best him
Tho’ the canvas was tattered and torn
His skill as a skipper was legend
There was not a finer one born
T’was the pirates that finally caught him
They had the wind at their back
They plundered the hold of its cargo
And sank that great ship in its track
Forty days they lay in that ocean
And the sailors were dying like flies
When at last the captain was rescued
There was barely a light in his eyes
The sun and the sea had destroyed him
And his mind was never the same
Ne’er again would he stride the ship timbers
As his clipper sped over the Main
So now he just sits at his window
As the wind stirs the smoke in his lum
And he stares at that ship in the harbour
A’dreaming and drinking his rum
by Chris Porter
Song Lyrics
This One’s For The Winos, The Working Girls, The Lovers, and The Crowds Passing By
I duck down in the alley,
Looking for a light,
I’ve got holes in my shoes
So my feet don’t get too tight.
I’ve got a pocket full of nothing,
And a brim full of sky,
To take me through the belly
Of a Saturday night.
I’ve got nowhere that I’ve got to be;
I’m footloose, unaffiliated, feeling fine, and fancy-free,
With the winos on the cobblestones
And the jugglers throwing bones under light.
The streets are gold tonight.
I’ve been across this city,
Under every overpass,
Sat in every open doorway,
Up against the glass.
I’ve seen every kind of face
And, if you have to ask,
There’s a treasure-trove of richness
In the cracks we pass.
I’ve got nowhere that I’ve got to be;
I’m just getting myself out on Cuba Street,
With the working girls, and the weaving crowds,
And the lovers arm and arm, in up tight.
The streets are gold tonight.
Just down past the Hotel Bristol
Somebody’s blowing “Nobody Owns The Moon”;
An old man laughs; a car toots its horn;
This is our town, baby –
This is our town glowing in gold.
I’ve got nowhere that I’ve got to be.
I ain’t thinking of Lorraine, she ain’t thinking about me….
I duck down in the alley,
Looking for a light,
I’ve got holes in my shoes
So my feet don’t get too dry.
I’ve got a pocket full of nothing
And a hand – a handful of time.
This one’s for the winos, and the working girls,
And the lovers, and the crowds passing by.
The streets are gold tonight.
You can listen to this song on Spotify.
Stewart Pedley & The Sinners
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