Bow of scow is aged; repair'd be nice;
The forecastle is spare.
The masts are canted; sails aren't square;
Snide cook's a lout. Bad pay.
The knouts upon the back have stung--
Mates rains the blows on everyone.
So many stings--this isn't fun;
The knouts crunch every day.

Snide cook and knouts; this boat's vile scow,
Scuppers unsound, sad bilge pumps down.
The clouds, cumulus, might mean squall.
I really hope those clouds get small!

Goons and loons like ferrets squeal;
The chipped beef's rancid. . .hate that meal!
For some, there's fairy-tail appeal.
I don't want love that way!
A sound comes up, and it's a blow--
The wind above; the men below.
I'm in despair; I want to go.
Homesick, sore. Help? No way!

I don't want love from backside now,
But quim, the mate prates, none, nohow!
His love allusions: try he-ball.
I really don't want love with Paul.

Cheers for rears and feeling prowed.
"Belay that love shmooze!" I vow loud.
Reams, butt seams; encircled crowds.
The cook's a "wife" to Ray.
When this voyage ends, my pact: I'll change
And take a job to ride the range.
I'll hump my hoss and hug her mane;
I'm living for that neigh. . . .

Snide cook's a wife; this boat's vile scow.
I sit and muse about a cow;
As I'm a-musin', a mean squall
Comes reelin' and. . .no life at all.