In the place where I often dine,
I have a mug bearing my name.
There are others, alongside mine,
But there’s not another the same.
Mine bears a cartoon of a shark,
For this diner is by the sea,
And from these docks, men often embark -
Fishing is in their history.
Nothing fancy, the place I eat,
It’s sort of ramshackled and quaint.
Too much junk around to be neat -
In the tourist guides, it sure ain’t.
But we geezers have become friends,
Retired, of varying worth,
Some careful with the dough each spends,
Yet, all are the “salt of the earth”.
It’s a great place for telling tales,
And exaggerating a bit,
While watching a crew mending sails,
Or making their old vessels fit.
s we move out to the dock,
And feed the pelicans some scraps,
Laughing at their peculiar walk,
Waddling from seats on crap traps.
We sip coffee from our mugs,
The insides of which are stained black;
Or guys lace it from hidden jugs,
They’ve stashed in the bait shack out back.
It’s a mix of husbands and wives,
Transplanted from some northern state,
In the twilight of our lives.
On my wife’s mug, it says, “First Mate”