The rigging creaking in the force of the storm.
The landsman’s leading light from cold hand torn.
The crew, using signs, for fear of being heard.
Approaching rocky shore by wreckers lured.
Smuggling again from dearth of fish and oil.
Cornishmen copy forbear’s dishonest toil.
Brandy from France’s vines and plentiful trees.
People from cold, hard life, little pleasures seize.
with hi-tech equipment revenue men track.
Thin ice-age sun giving power the people lack.
Send wrecking crew fleeing their lives to save.
Ultrasonic sound calls smugglers to icy grave.
The unmanned ship from homely shore retreating,
With priceless cargo human central heating.
Britannia rules no longer, the futures bleak.
Feel the force of the storm, hear the rigging creak.