She claimed the name “Captain Pipeye Twain,” a brat with a sailor's trunk.
She’s a Merchant's Marine from Skibareen, a-waiting in yonder bunk.
I played her card, and she rode me hard, whilst the night was warmed with rum,
But now tis day, and she won't a-way, 'til she's had another bump.
I don't mean rum, tis the other fun, needs trimming a-fore she sails,
But flood me scuppers, there’s no getting upwards, I’m withered by her gales.
A night in the throes of her mightiest blows, has me hull resting heavy and low,
just one more wink, and I’ll likely sink to the locker where Davey Jones dove.
But disdaining harm, I’m scraping me barnacle, hoping to “up“ the main-mast,
’Cause this must end, I’ll tell you friend, belowdecks is no place for a lass!