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The Old Man’s been locked up in lighthouse,
A figure through the sill;
His notebooks, full, about the desk
Reveal a statue, a portrait of goodwill:
“I was taught not to speak,
But to listen and see.
For when the moon calls the tide,
And the sea makes reply,
I am a guide for each
Lost soul out at sea.
“I’d like nothing but to stay
To comfort each creak in the night.
But, Glory, you’re on your last light;
The moon is but a cold sight;
My heart was all but forthright--
Oh, burn on through sleep!
And sing as I go,
Though you’ll be boarded and closed;
Though the ships find their home
Without a flame or a soul!
I’ve been locked up in the lighthouse
to decorate the past
They’re sellin’ me off!
They’re taking all I own
With a wink and a scoff
Glory’s on fire, she’s
Rust-red in the light,
Setting like autumn
When the sun comes rising in spite
From the glass to the sea,
I’m plywood and nails
Just to foster a dream;
Ain’t the same as it’s been
Look at me leaving
And know I’ll be back again,”