Her Song

On the shores of Bengal there is a place where they
slaughter ships, tearing them up, almost by hand, into
scraps of iron, you will have no knowledge of that
once they rode the many seas and where home for
lonely men who referred to the ship as “she”; was glad
to be onboard after a stormy night ashore. Who, when
finally leaving her, were moist eyed and silent for once.

On the shores of Bengal stories go untold, bits of iron
in a heap nothing much to get sentimental about; except
there was a ship named “Grace” she plied the coast of
America central, and was resident of Costa Rica, but
alas she was sold to unfeeling Canadians; I jumped ship
then and shamefully left her to fend for herself amongst
heathen on the icy, desolate coast of Labrador.