The old Murray island White House
Still coughs in her salt water grave.
Her ships are gone.
Her old wooden barnacles
Have no place in this day and age.
My mind grows tranquil and
Like a shore bird
I sill want the same old herring
Who danced like sailors all day.  
On top of the smooth green waters
They fell in love with this place.  
They stayed like salmon
Returning to their graves.  
So few are left now
Only the stubborn ones
Who never grow up
To leave their bay.