Darling.
I’m scared.
This ship is set sail,
and not even the captain can say to where.
The stewards keep stuffing me with handfuls of dramamine,
but the seas still sway,
and the sick still stays.
Those pills just blend the days.
I’ve tried that drum dull chatting,
with which all the wallows seem to partake,
but those chats all seem well rutted,
and do nothing to stop this ceaseless sloshing.
The skipper’s seen the ice by lightning-strike,
and I don’t know if we’ll make it the night.
But the captain steers,
chanting: We sail on. We sail on.
