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,tYour bright light’s followed by boat bevy;And during those calm, clear days and nightsYou’re that upright nautical dream exciting tiny tykes.
