Flags are flying, seas are rising,
shorten sail, turn from home.
Dirty weather ahead, feeling of dread,
secure the decks and look lively.
Surfing through foam, hear the rig moan,
one eye on the glass, it is still falling.
Ebony night, storms at its height,
slipping toward land, no moon to guide us.
First of the light, land is in sight.
The lee shore draws near,
up a few points if we dare.
Airs full of spray, cloaked in grey.
Let loose the anchors,
the gig has blown away.
Sands in slow motion,
the lead doesn’t lie,
running out of ocean.
It’s time to say goodbye.