Anchored In Hindsight Poem by J... Tudor

Anchored 'neath moons harbour,
and waiting for a tide,
I 'spect the beans and rice
will have to subside.

The winds are low,
and the sails are torn,
with no fuel for the lamp
and the wick is worn.

The paint, she's peeling,
from stern to bow, and
the rudder, she's broken
against the rocks somehow.

I could go on and on,
but what's the use,
simply said, this ol' boat's
had some abuse.

So sadly I take note,
of just where I am, and
I'm beginning to think
I should've just swam.