The Last Ship

When a man of my age shaves his face in the morning, Who is it that stares back and greets him? The ghost of his father long dead all these years? Or the boy that he was, still wet in the ears? Or the terrible sum of all of his fears, In the eyes of

Am I asking for the moon? Is it really so implausible? That you and I could soon, Come to some kind of arrangement? I'm not asking for the moon, I've always been a realist, When it's really nothing more, Than a simple rearrangement. With one roof abo