In the dawn’s early light, where the shadows still fade,
Along the bustling docks, where the ships are arrayed,
With the salt in the air and the tide’s steady roll,
The stevedores gather, their spirits and souls.

With calloused hands ready, they greet the new day,
As the cranes loom above, lifting cargo to sway.
From the hold of the freighters, the crates are expelled,
Each box tells a story, each burden compelled.

“Hey there, mate!” calls a voice, rich with hearty cheer,
As the clang of the metal rings sharp to the ear.
They hoist and they haul, with muscles like stone,
In the rhythm of labor, they find their own tone.

The scent of the ocean, the grit of the ground,
With each straining effort, a brotherhood found.
Through sweat-streaked brows, they share laughter and toil,
In the dance of the dock, where their dreams intertwine and coil.

They lift and they load, as the seagulls take flight,
With the sun climbing higher, turning morning to light.
From sugar and spices to fabrics and steel,
The world’s treasures come forth, in their hands, they reveal.

But the work is not easy, the hours are long,
With the weight of the world, they must be both steadfast and strong.
Through storms and through sunshine, they stand side by side,
On the docks of the harbor, where hopes and fears bide.

At dusk, when the sun sinks, painting skies with a blaze,
They gather for laughter, for the end of the days.
With tales of the tide and the ships sailing free,
They toast to the future, to what’s yet to be.

For each stevedore knows, as the stars start to gleam,
That the strength of their labor is the heart of a dream.
In the echo of the waves and the whisper of the shore,
They find in their work a life to adore.

So here’s to the stevedores, the unseen, the bold,
With stories unspoken, and treasures untold.
In the fabric of time, they weave their own lore,
As they carry the world, from the sea to the shore.