While Puerto Rico Cries Beth Oast Williams You lift up your boats to the lord so barnacles won’t weigh them down their hulls cracked dry from days of being out of water. 14 Nothing to drink will kill you just like yachts left to rot their tanks not empty of gas but no one to run them. You wouldn’t throw a thirsty man a roll of paper towels while he kneels at the rail longing for the cold chalice on his lips. The sea connects your misery as taps waste your daily drink. Carry the bucket to the needy and wash your hands of greed.