The tide gates are locked tight and the draw bridge is down
There’s no wind in the air, not a rustle or a sound, no
breeze in the lungs, just the smell of the town
The boat moves irrationally, the wakes of the boats all around
To ponder the journey will take some time, a few beers would be nice, but there’s sleep that is needed, if it can ever be found
Ahh the different sounds a port brings to your ears, the sound of kids and the tourist’s loud cheers, is this somehow real or just one of my fears
To touch land is needed, there are stores and repairs, to your brain and the spars, just have a look from deck to hounds
But to be locked to a port is something quite strange, you're safe but you're trapped, like a cat on a chain you can only go around and around
Please let the weed grow slow on the hull, may the city dust be washed clean by the rain, those beautiful white sheets, will soon be green like the fields
Your intuitive feelings, the weather and the sea, it changes and stops as the bustle of the world seem to envelop you completely from the top
Don’t let this time stay, there are waves just outside the bay, the ocean isn’t just about sailing it’s about living a very different sway
A sailor's way is not so deranged, the needs and the feel are all really quite real, they can never be compared to city life with its hustle or the compounds of the port.
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