The Boats

the boats, the boats, my wooden boats
 were never meant to dry
 what is a boat that cannot float
 and rots from air and sky?
 I nailed a sheet, I named it twice
 I waited on the spit
 for wind, for wind, some kind of wind
 to come and sail with it
 this is my boat, my favorite boat
 I built it with my hands
 and on its shell, my earthly hull
 I have become a man
 some are washed and ground ashore
 and some get thrown by tide
 but this new world of mold and smell
 it simply drowns my pride
 and in the wake, I am awake
 with no one to take the helm
 and what I built with labor hard
 grows still and soft and calm
 we turn the cheek, we try to hope
 for boats from other shores
 and in the end we are alone
 who are we to hope for more
 some are washed and ground ashore
 and some get thrown by tide
 but this new world of mold and smell
 it simply drowns my pride
 the boats, the boats, my wooden boats
 were never meant to dry
 what is a boat that cannot float
 and rots from air and sky?