The Gales of 1838

They say, 'She walks in the water; her whistles silence the day. She helps the smugglers turn their crimes into American dimes into Canadian dollars, opium, and haze. At the foot of Woodward, there's a condition or two to shade the custom's review: all the young women overdressed in their long-coats allow us to drink on their wine. Our eyes turn to glass and shine on blind. So I've had wine and wine and wine and more wine tonight, and tonight I saw their world. And I am so far from it now, I'm collapsing like the lighthouse in the gales of 1838.

She takes musicians to Bois Blanc. She takes the dancers there too and at the end of the long nights, she takes them back by lamplight but until then she stays clear out of view. Before we dock at Richmond there's a hidden tax of merit and all the boaters inherit one dollar for every Lincoln brought in.
We exchange them their Loonies and unwind. Our eyes turn to glass and shine on blind.