A hamlet of one thousand, living on the foreshore
A hubbub of humanity, survival at its core
A cocktail of life, oft shaken, and stirred
A ropy undignified indifference, regularly heard
A taste of saltwater, fish, and a melancholic gin
Gnarled hands, and weathered faces, with an accompanying din
A thriving populace, some occasionally amorous
Seagull artists, painting Union flags, uncolourful, and unglamorous
Sunken ships, recycled, and usurped, in which to dwell
Smugglers, thieves, and vagabonds, sometimes made it hell
A whole host of personalities, were readily found
Living on a non Bermudan Triangle, known as the America Ground
by Jemia