Maine

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.