To the friends we've lost to insecurity,
To the bodies buried in the cemetery,
Of company,
And their misery.
These anchors may prove more than your shores can bury.

The shipping lanes all close,
And a storm takes on the sea.
Flare guns fire only smoke,
We don't count on a morning's coming,
With cloud cover so thick,
When asked if the morning's close,
The answer is only ever,
Almost.