Some slouching on the shore,
others stand erect.
A bright red stage faces the wind
its legs are getting wet.
At the end of a sun-bleached wharf
stands an old grey splitting table.
The new painted boat upon the slip
is straining at her cable.
The peeling paint of a nearby stage
appears so sad and forlorn.
Just like the pile of lobster traps
they are also peeled and worn.
If the walls of these old sheds could speak
what yarns they would tell.
About the cuffers of the men
and of young boys as well.
A place to gather and have a smoke
those days are in the past.
So these red stages must be restored
to make sure they last and last.