After nine months of uneasy camping in lonely avenue,
Wound up taut like a high-tension spring.
Suffering from the blues when lonely winds blew past,
Falling apart at the seams when bad news came from home.
Yet never allowing a sigh to get outside his heart,
Controlling his biological urges, being the perfect family man.
Changing coats constantly as the situation on board deemed,
Judge, doctor, policeman, accountant, pest control, cook,
Journalist, plumber, headshrink, soldier ( without license to kill ),
Businessman, you name it – he does it as part of his job.
Round the clock, not 9 to 5, but day after day, without holiday
Giving away prices which he and only he had deserved,
Yet unwillingly being the scapegoat when Murphy’s Law ruled.
Trying to figure out the blurred line between fact and fiction,
Living on the edge, never feeling immune to the prospect of failure.
Working for a Management that had mastered the art of exploiting vulnerability,
Steeling himself to read telexes which started “we fail to understand”,
Being the punching bag for thankless Owners and Charterers,
Being forced to take uncalculated risks against his better judgment,
Trying to push his ship to keep pace with a pea-brained schedule,
Pushing Mr. Pride aside when dealing with customs and coastguards,
Itching to bloody their noses, but somehow holding his peace,
Forcing him to add more names to the list of people who can kiss his ass.
Being patient, even to wait for one more minute past eternity,
Dealing with faceless men and spineless backdoor hustlers
Who got their kicks by sending missiles by telex from overseas.
Rubbing shoulders with powers that be, who put their mouths into motion
Without putting their collective brains into gear even once.
Deadening his raw nerves in the cold comfort of whisky heaven
The days his bosses played petty mind games of domination on him
Distrusting angels which fly too low, not believing in messiahs
Burning bridges behind him when the situation became “no go”
Combating the feeling that time is running out on him
Time and again counting the odds against tomorrow
Wearing lucky charms, combating ulcers and nosebleeds
Yet thriving on the virus of presence like a shark
Which needs to suck saltwater past it’s gills just to stay alive.
After all this –
This modern seafaring gypsy has passed on his crown of thorns
Packed his bags and is now a stranger in even stranger lands
Destination home sweet home, his high is only one
Wending his weary way to the hotel room, he drops on the bed
The windmills of his mind come to a smooth halt as he falls into slumber
They had been ceaselessly turned by winds of anxiety the last nine months
It is unwinding time now for this poor wanderer.
Hush, not a sound ! The Captain sleeps tonight . . .