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The salty brine
that sprays and spits
from the ocean's mouth,
And the pongy stench
of the rotting shells
we coast and crush over,
The biting wind cuts through
raw and sharp and chilled
even to the rigging bones,
And it combs through my hair,
teasing the greasy tangles
and feeding on the salt and the stench
hewed to my fleshy scalp.
It's been six months and seven days
that I've been at sea,
Pulling ropes and yelling orders
all from the helm.
I've been conning alone
with a full ship and crew,
and I've developed a sailor's tongue.
My pockets are brimming
with the excuses I could tell you
of why we couldn't moor at your quay,
But my hands are busy at the helm
with its splintered wood
and the rusty knobs,
And my eyes are fixed
on that glowing horizon light
and the retreating skyline.
So I'll continue to sail ahead
morning and noon and night,
And even I really don't know why,
Even I don't know why.
'Cause I've been conning alone
with a full ship and crew,
and I've developed a sailor's tongue,
And even I don't know why,
I don't know why.
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