A Homebody’s Sea-Shanty

While captains sail for foreign shores,
For thunder, reefs, adventure and gales;
I dream of sock drawers besides warm clocks,
While kettles sing their steamy saucy tales.

While my passport sleeps stone-cold under the bed,
I never count the days that I've lost,
While toasting thick-cut slices of bread—
I'm a homemade salad, chopped and tossed.

I love my domestics—they're all such homely bliss;
Why go out when that's so inane and insane?
My old routine—It's no hit or miss—It's no abyss,
Just sweet pure sameness, so pleasantly mundane.

Home is where the soul loves its slippers,
Wearing a weathered coat and weary pride;
Where old regrets are served as kippers,
With poached eggs, sunny soft yellow inside.

The old grandfather clock in the hall
Chimes seven bells: "Are all hands aboard?"
Not to call the watch or some tavern brawl,
But to signal a buffet meal served sideboard.

I fold the clothes to patter-pats on window panes.
Sweep the floors dancing to ye old rock and roll,
Wash the dirty dishes over and over again,
Cranking up the karaoke to fire up my soul.

The garden knows my cold bare feet,
Better than cobbled stone roads beyond;
I pick herbs and fresh green leaves so sweet,
Then I turn the soil, and clean the pond.

So raise your mugs, I'm home tonight—
Heave away, haul away, let me stay,
At home in paradise of bliss and delight
Belayed and stayed beneath the archway.

So haul away, I'm homeward bound,
Where kettles sing of choppy seas;
Where my same old routine is crowned—
With a gravy boat, and baked mac-and-cheese.

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