Hauling all that he had,
In an old canvas bag,
And a duffle slung over his shoulder,
Heading up Sheldon Street,
The rain turns to sleet,
And each step seems one degree colder.
The neon sign blinks,
In reds, blues, and pinks,
The Downtowner Motel,
He takes room seventeen,
It's small, but it's clean,
And a room he will come to know well.
He comes up this way,
From Marquette, they say,
When the ore boats lay up in December,
He's been land-locked here,
Three months every year,
More winters than he cares to remember.
Since seventy-two,
He's been with the crew,
Of the freighter, the Arthur B. Homer.
He's never claimed stakes,
Prefers the Great Lakes,
And living the life of a loner.
So he sits in his gloom,
Until late afternoon,
In the Downtowner Motel,
Then he wanders down,
The back streets of town,
To the places where mariners dwell,
Along the Portage,
The dark no-name bars,
Known to only who travel that way,
Where the leathery fellows,
From the big boats hold session,
And squander their paychecks away.
Through the din and the drone,
In a maritime tone,
He talks of the seasons gone by,
On steamers he's crewed,
Of women he's wooed,
And Fitzgerald, the pride of the line.
Now he's paying the price,
But he doesn't think twice,
As each day rolls into another.
He just waits for the news,
That they've opened the Soo,
Then he's downbound again on the Homer.
He's never claimed stakes,
Prefers the Great Lakes,
And living the life of a loner.

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