Beaufort pier is just off the old road.
The road winds between the old mossy trees
And through downtown where the market it is.
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays
You can find Nick Antonini somewhere near
The Atlantic Ocean, Casting a line.

An old wooden rocking chair, smoking a pipe
Long snow white hair in a dirty ball cap
Fishing rod in one hand and a good read in the other.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him fishing with out his partner,
His old blue tick hound, bo.
His grandkids sit in awe of his stories of his younger days.

You’d never see Nick at home,
He was the life of the party.
Started both ways his senior year of football,
Had college hopes till he blew out his knee
I Saw him make 18 tackles in one game his junior year.
He was good, in fact, he was all conference his junior year.

The day starts early with coffee and breakfast,
Along with his wife down at the local pancake cafe.
If he isn’t in the garden, on the pier, or on the surf,
You’ll probably catch him working on his swing,
Playing the back 9 down at the country club.
He likes to walk all 9 holes.

When the sun sets, he’s out on the back porch.
Swinging back in forth in the cool ocean breeze
The smell of the salt water mixed with vanilla pipe tobacco
A pitcher sits on the patio table of the back porch,
Filled with his favorite drink, sweet tea.
He lives life the way its supposed to be, happy and carefree.