Heave ho farewell to the quay

Merry sailors sailors we

The horizon is our proscenium

Our dead will come to know the sea

Our cook is a wanted man

Thousand thalers for each hand

Our captain lost his good sense

Driven by a Lazarus' words

Have you not been told of Lazarus

He felt the icy grip

Brought back by a morphine drip

He told the captain this

Tragedy tragedy

Death has you fooled

No throne of bone

No terranean pool

No scythe no cowl

No skeleton

His greatest trophy is this myth

Every sailor salmon every carp

Will follow rivers to the source

Only the dead will know

The course

Do you want to know

Of the afterworld