Matey

Matey, a word that rolls like tide on a shore,
A salty grin shared between ship‑mates and more.
It clinks in the galley, where biscuits are steeped,
In the hush of the forecastle, where secrets are kept.

From Portsmouth’s damp cobbles to Cornwall’s wild spray,
A matey’s a comrade who’ll stand come what may.
He’ll lend you his coat when the wind turns to sleet,
Share his last dram of rum when the night feels bittersweet.

In taverns with low‑beamed ceilings and smoke‑hazed air,
The chorus rises: “Here’s to you, matey, so fair!”
It’s not just a sailor’s salute, but a bond that endures—
A simple, steadacious cheer that the heart still ensures.

So raise up your glass, let the chorus entwine,
To every true matey—your kin, your confidante, your line.
In Britain’s soft speech, in the lilt of its cheer,
“Matey” means friendship, forever sincere.