Beacon, beacon, lonesome on a hill— Waves run aground, pound ‘round, what a thrill! Water water everywhere crashes, Shore’s not lazy for it mashes, bashes….. Summer’s when tourists traipse o’er to see you, Offering to wipe-wash your dust and mildew; Summer painters place you with dinghy and gull, Historians have you as subject o’er which to mull. When feline Fog drifts gently or is heavy, Your bright light’s followed by boat bevy; And during those calm, clear days and nights You’re that upright nautical dream exciting tiny tykes.
