Poor old landlocked sailor, washed-up on
Never been so many miles from the sea before,
Is he dreaming of the surging tide, the rolling swell?
Is he dreaming of the ocean? No - is he hell!
He's a happy landlocked sailor living in the trees,
He swapped the roaring tide-race for the mountain breeze,
With his wife he lives in paradise in the Rockies of B.C.,
How I wish that happy landlocked sailor could be me.
He finds that on the lake he's never bothered by the tide,
All his navigation is done on the mountainside,
Waves of ocean-blue have changed to waves of forest-green,
White horses into snow-capped peaks as far as can be seen.
He used to sail the sea-lanes to exotic ports-of-call,
Now he cruises dusty roads down to the local mall,
His roving day are over, his feet upon the shore,
He's never going back, he's on dry-land for evermore.
(Now you know that happy landlocked sailor's really me.)