She is like an old wooden ship Garnished with scars of war and time From port to starboard they abound But steer they do through wharf and sound. She still glides and takes in little sea Yet a shell of what she used to be While ships with proud and rigid sails Give way to her their deep travails. She is a comrade of the yawning deep Whose blush bath she did often reap And though her blemish they may lay to claim It is she who rode and quelled their flame On journeys she dreamed of but never sought Past hue and harbor to her final port.