The widows don’t walk on the old crumbling blocks,
That wait at the edge of the bay,
And the mother’s don’t cry with a wandering eye,
‘Or waves where their children have strayed.

The sailors don’t wait for a ship to run late
To chisel the names in the stone
And church sings a hymn to the rising storm winds
All bound to my #marrow and bones

For the curses that hide in the ebbs of the tide
Are mine, and I’ll never be free
So ask what you may, on the fates of the strays
That wander the depths of the sea