The King of Sunken Treasures

My working man,

Has soiled hands,

His nails are lined with grease.

His calf brown eyes,

go flicking by,

the ghosts of things he's seen.

The hush hush whispered echoing,

Of the ocean, ever beckoning,

His sailing heart from home.

My working man,

Has softer hands,

Than you'd think of a sailor.

His wolffish grin,

is broader in,

Comparison to his rancor.

His Hours now are spent,

At ease with strong back bent,

Over keys instead of Pistons.

My working man,

At age 18 gave up civilian pleasures,

To sail the world,

And keep up ships,

The king of sunken treasures.