The 40 Mile

It’s blowin’ at the 40 Mile
And time is goin’ slow
There’s naught to do but sit around
And watch the kapok grow

For days on end we sit and wait
To see the dread wind drop
The easterlies that curse our lives
Have blown without a stop

Then finally a morning comes
The sea is calm and flat
And those with boats will set to sea
You can be sure of that

But by the time you bait a line
And drop the anchor low
The wind picks up and boats come back
To miss the next big blow

And days go by without a chance
to fish out on the reef
the waters churn themselves to brown
and hide what lies beneath

So in the end you plan a trip
and head off into town
and all at once the wind has dropped
the sea is calming down

You curse the wind, the hand of fate
While you go on your mission
For all the other boats go out
to have a good time fishin’

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