The Fisherman's Shack Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

Safe upon the solid rock
mansions sit and gloat,
fences, guards and triple lock
cops called by remote.

Come and see my little shack
just above high tide,
sun-dried herring on a rack
this is where I hide.

Have no riches and no gold
fishing is my life,
growing wrinkly, getting old,
all without a wife.

All the women like the rock
and the fancy cars,
ten-deck yacht down at the dock,
overflowing bars.

Let me clean this stuff away
sit here on this crate,
will you have some tea and stay
wait for my best mate?

Boat comes when the sun goes down
ought to have a catch,
lives still at the top of town,
but we are a match.

Poor the devil is like me
born without a spoon,
wouldn't know what else to be,
might get lucky soon.

Sorry, cup broke, use this tin
must apologise,
never mind my silly grin,
I just LOVE your eyes.

She stood up and took his hand,
friend, would you stop talking,
yes your house is built on sand,
and I LIKE your gawking.

Put your arms around me please,
For many months I've known,
I would come here not to tease,
but to use your stone,

sharpen all your hooks for you
and your fishing knife,
if you feel just as I do
I will be your wife.