Like a thousand promises before,

On a thousand different winds,

Blowing through the steel fingers,

Of the Birkenhead bayou,

Yours were no different:

Beacons aflame,

Amidst the corrugated bones,

Becoming ashes borne upwards,

On a skulking southeasterly,

To the mouth of the river,

To be swallowed by a thousand tides,

Into the belly of the sea.