The Bay of Bengal, where it lies;
The place where men work hard and long,
The beach where old ships go to die.
Carved apart, their bones reused,
Steel skeletons of human pride.
Asbestos. Oil. It's all refuse,
The offal left to foul the tide.
And poor men labor through the day,
Their brown skins darker from the sun,
For a meager dollar's pay --
Yes, a dollar. Only one.
One falls, another comes along,
To break the ships at Chittagong.
Men sail the ships to Chittagong.
Men whose lives have been the sea,
Men whose conscience feels a wrong,
Men whose wallets let it be.
The breaking's worse. It's cruel and hard;
This work is simple. It's well-paid.
This man, from Vladivostok yards
To Chittagong, in Bengal Bay.
And back. Three more ships, waiting there.
Three more times at Judas goat.
Three more paychecks, more than fair.
Three more prices put on hope.
Three more times to feel he's wrong,
To break his heart at Chittagong.