Henry Smithfield. The fisherman

Crab pot fisherman chugs on by,
I see his hat as he looks to the sky.
Seagulls circling high above,
the crew throw out scraps,
that will be their morning grub.

Up and over those waves so high,
the crab pot fisherman sail on by.
I see his beard as he looks to the sky,
watching the weather be it wet or dry.
Skin like leather,hair oiled and wet,
should of become an old bloody vet.

The crab pot fisherman sails on by,
saw me wave from the beach at high.
His boat is filled with shrimps and crabs,
to sell to shops who line up for first grabs.
He waves back to me with a hairy grin,
when sold this catch, to the pub for a gin.

His days on this boat will come to an end,
his son aboard will take over the Smithfield trend.
He'll retire to the pub telling tales so long,
when tired of that he'll sing a shanty song..