Thus he had worked
Seaweed sweat
Fishing net his hair
The ocean his debt
The coast his footing
The inland his home
Thus he had worked
While in poverty he roamed.
On route 95
They leave
Tourists, travelers and leaf watchers
With their money he can only grieve
When his children follow
With promises of better jobs
Where in crowded cities
His children become snobs
Thus he had worked.
Now he is resting
Remembering his culture
And his hard working values
He clutches his rum like a vulture
Remembering years of labor
His hopes lost to despair
Where his mind now lurks
Lost his culture, his children
Although all his life; he had worked.
