The America Ground

A hamlet of one thousand,
Living on the foreshore
A hubbub of humanity,
Survival at its core
A cocktail of life,
Oft shaken, and stirred
A ropy undignified indifference,
Was regularly heard
A taste of saltwater,
Fish, and a melancholic gin
Gnarled hands, and weathered faces,
With an accompanying din
A thriving populace,
Some occasionally amorous
Seagull artists, painting Union flags,
Uncolourful, and unglamorous
Sunken ships, recycled, and usurped,
In which they did dwell
Smugglers, thieves, and vagabonds,
Sometimes made it hell
A whole myriad of personalities,
Were often readily found
Living on this non Bermudan Triangle,
known as the America Ground
by Jemia