Beacon, beacon, lonesome on a hillWaves run aground, pound round, what a thrill!Water water everywhere crashes,Shores not lazy for it mashes, bashes..Summers when tourists traipse oer to see you,Offering to wipe-wash your dust and mildew;Summer painters place you with dinghy and gull,Historians have you as subject oer which to mull.When feline Fog drifts gently or is heavy, Your bright lights followed by boat bevy;And during those calm, clear days and nightsYoure that upright nautical dream exciting tiny tykes.
