August in the Caribbean where seas are at there worst
men in ships sail the waters ,in thunder and cloudburst
wicked waves, salt lashed seas , heaving starboard to port
hanging on for life it seems, before its cut to short
the forward bow is buried, the sea is in control
water has covered the mission mast, its virtues will extol
riding the wave, she pops up like a cork
her stern now sinking, deeply, i hear young sailors baulk
half ahead, in heavy seas holding our position!
it seems sailors ,unlike like landlocked men, are full of superstation
they brave it out, and call the odds, hearts bursting with pride
but behind it all, i can recall the tears that they cried
