The Beach Comber

I'd like to return to the world again, To the dutiful, work-a-day world of men, - For I'm sick of the beach-comber's lot, Of the one volcano flaming hot, With the snow round its edge and the fire in its throat, And the tropical island that seems a-float Like a world set in space all alone in the sea . . . How I wish that a ship, it would stop for me. I'm sick of the brown girl that loves me, I'm sick Of the cocoanut groves, - you can't take me too quick From this place, though it's rich in all nature can give . . . For I want to return where it's harder to live, Where men struggle for life, where they work and find sweet Their rest after toil, and the food that they eat . . . What? A ship's in the offing? . . . dear God, let me hide, - They're in need of a sailor, are waiting for the tide To put off? . . . I will hide where the great cliff hangs sheer - Give 'em mangoes and goats, and don't tell 'em I'm here!