Ports

A bastard born without a name
an’ abused ’till he fought back.
Been fightin’ since for always found
on the wrong side of the track.

The cops done had it in for him,
he a lowdown no-good punk.
When sober, just another bum
an’ a rebel when he’s drunk.

They turned him mean, got liquored up,
dredgin' madness out of rum.
Them tremors ’fore the loaded din
an’ who’d have him on the run.

A ragin’ ’gainst what drove him bad,
in a bar of stale disdain.
On the dark side of his tempers,
in a port without a name.

Made foul the air with curse an’ scorn,
of his tongue, none could abide.
A night of hooch an’ fisticuffs
’till they kicked his arse outside.

Where found himself a heavin’ bile
in the throes of self-torment.
Mid losers, thieves an’ sewer rats
where the likes of him frequent.

Come morn an’ tide, to sea once more,
of a mood to rile the main.
To foreign shores, another bar
in a port without a name.

His like an’ worse, he’d take ’em on,
them who’d bleed him of his pain.
Who’d stick him good an’ bury him
in a grave without a name.