Chicharreros, Islanders,
those brave men of iced seas,
Toiling on boats, in
sun, cold wind & balmy soft breeze,
Of chiseled sunned
faces & cracked cockled salt beards,
So many monsters beneath,
in oceans deep to be feared.
Seamen, of molten sun-crashed
voices & rough cut hands,
Heave-ho, twined old
nets, hauled safely to waiting lands,
Of shanties plucked,
reels heeled & story soaked tongue,
Echoes over seven seas,
heard when dreamt, told & sung.
Chicharreros, strong
men of salt, shell & fish-gut scum,
Saline burnt by salt
& sun, rot gut by grog & rough rum,
Visions of fin, shell
& the elusive silver & shining scales,
Dreaming of mermaids,
Neptune & much heard whales.
Chicharreros, Islanders,
you men of seas & oceans wild,
You of Tenerife, rusted
anchors, ropes & home-left child,
Dreaming of your Maria
& home hearth you left burning,
With nets full, compass
to home & over doldrums churning.
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