Joe Three

Forget all these clowns, that come to woo you, many without elan, as loud as their woes, harbour ships blow hooters, every song sings of home, not just what’s gone, that makes them swoon, but better than a throne, your face deadpan, in bars full of cruisers , you’d rather be on plan, nothing comes by chance, your eyes are ruined, everything comes to pass, head back she raises a laugh, what can they do to her, with hard countenance, strange in these ocean towns, these faded boozers, how they raise your crown, culled from the sewer.