Pale light, rotten water, excrement.
A dim moon shimmers through the fog.
It smells like old fish coming from a cellar.
People stare into every strange face.
You are here Doesn't like to be disturbed very much,
That goes for anyone who gets lost here.
The terminus is in the harbor
Flotsam and jetsam, washed up forever,
The wheat has long been separated from the chaff.
The rum numbs the greatest torment,
Every deck scrubber becomes an admiral.
Old men quench their desires here,
And old women hand their wrinkled breasts to children.
The final stop is in the harbor