Pike, pike, pike, what has become of thee?
There's no hooked ones found--
You pine piscatorially;
You'll take a bark to sea.
You're in the sound, your line drops down,
And you're trying for hake, sea snails, and pilchard.

You feared casting off from the land:
Down by the riverside, your bound line went in with flies tied--
At least, that's the plan:
A nasty cut on your hand--
The hook; you frown, sail the sound now,
And you're trying for hake, sea snails, and pilchard.

Hang on to your pole, my friend.
Let the line and the fish play
Because your pole might slip away
And then it will end
Up down with Davy Jones' men.
Don't look down; look at the sky.
Too late--lunch flies, and you "spritz" on Captain Bligh.

Arrggghh!!!

Seashells sell by seashore, wish ye;
Eatin' time, but you're tarpon-free,
And the crew threatens mutiny.
You're tossed in the seething brine

Funny just how many ships
Pass by; cooks, mates pose finger flips. . .
Scum, putzes, and swine.
Sinkin'; they toss ya no line.

You look around; you're goin' down now
And will die midst the hake, sea snails, and pilchard.

Goin' down, waves turn brown;
There's a haddock that wants to clown
All around; makes you frown
As he happily drags you down,
Where you drown, never found;
It's too bad you chose boat not ground

Glug!