To sail the seas of raging foam,
to walk the wooden rail.
To follow true the northern star
as winds the rigging wail.

The smell of pitch and sticky sap,
of pots with boiling stew.
Of Yo Heave Ho and bottled ale,
a sailor’s portly due.

The watch in wait the tower high
to sight the blowing whale.
A pound in hand the vaulted prize
to men who man the sail.

A biscuit hard to sop the meal
into a gaping maw.
A tale of yore, of dainty maids
who thwart the aching paw.

A thousand leagues, or fathom less
beneath the wooden hull.
A watchful mate who sights the mark
upon the count and pull.

Tis but the life of wayward scruffs
who skim the blue regale.
Their hearts were born to man the jib
and raise a salty tale.

And when the sail is seen the edge
of light beyond the moon.
A bet is sure, to wager well...
...his heart will come home soon...