Progress ?

They are cleaning out the north dock,
To build a marina bright and flash,
Making a playground for the rich,
A place to spend their cash.
No more little cobles, bobbing up and down.
Unloading fish and *****, to sell here in the town.
There is nothing wrong with progress,
Or yachts bright and sleek.
But give me nets and crab pots any day of the week.
Maybe if the yachtsmen could see the way it used to be,
They would swap their yachts for cobles,
and become fishermen by the sea.