A Scouser sails upon the ocean of decay,
finding there's more to the world than he's like to find.
There's a lot of time to fool around while sailing on the ocean blue.
There's a lot of time for reflection, self-(inter) circumspection.
Of the many travels over time, he wonders where he's been to,
all those haggard attitudes, measuring out with longitude in years gone by.
In thinking where he's going, his direction from the mooring,
lets him know it will be alright.
Still, rough sailing is all that he's ever known.
Been blown out of the water more times than he'd care to tell.
Been dry-docked, been marooned.
Been stranded like a Liver bird, desperate to fly back home to his family.
His altitude high-flying.
His longitude no one is buying yet,
but he doesn't care.
Just as long as he makes it home to Liverpool,
without being shipwrecked.
By Charles Bernstein