We sail on a rowing ship
and the captain is drunk with glory
we have a poet on board
who’s supposed to record our story.
But the poet has his hands tangled
and his language is poor on words
that can describe our strangled
existence in this miniature world.
The cook has been too kind to us
always trying to cheer our souls
for him a lovely meal’s a must
and yet it ends in the shithole.
It doesn’t seem like hope is lost
if you judge by the drunken sailors
singing about a distant coast
and the treasures of an old pirate whaler.
And so, we all keep rowing
hoping to reach a new land
despite the smarter of us knowing
it will hardly change our stand.
The waves will rock us day by day
the colors slowly will degrade
the deck will be in disarray
and all of our ambitions fade.
And once we crash amidst a storm
the fish will have a fattening feast
to know this, oh it feels so warm
I can hope for this at least.