Post Cod War Blues Part 2

Blood money isn’t paid in silver these days, just transferred to your account with a sheet of computerised data to tell you their proffered amount. I’m standing over the fish sheds, to my front near empty docks, to my rear swift running Humber, to the left the gates and the locks. In my pocket this little piece of paper that tell me the price of my pride and I’m standing out here in the open ‘cos I won’t be seen crying inside. So many years I served on those trawlers the boy to man years of my life I saw so much more of my ship mates than I did of my children and wife; stood on the decks in the cold and the fog and the rain and the sleet and the ice gutting the fish for your table. We accepted it wouldn’t be nice. I worked all those years for a living because fishing was part of my blood from, a proud and vital community surviving both bad years and good. Most of those years worked for one company, most of that time in one or two ships I was a regular deckie I didn’t miss many trips. Then they turned and told me you’re finished with just a swift oh by the way you were only a casual worker, don’t get any severance pay. All these years we’ve fought for our justice. For recognition of our effort and pride, Our numbers slowly dwindling. One by one old comrades died: And now they tell me this is victory time to pay for my wasted years so I’m standing atop of this fish shed no shame in my bitter tears. enjoy your cod my brother but grant me one little wish. Before you add your vinegar just think of one price paid for fish.