We are but prisoners of this insipid race,
on fetid boats that scour the seven seas,
sailing across tepid waters for a taste
of what is, what was, of what will never be.
Hard at the oars, row,row, row, row,
'faster!' screams the sordid midshipman,
driving whip into bone, much pain to sow.
there is no sight for hope, no island.
Here, out at water, moon pushes tide,
so seize the sails, all hands on deck,
a little bee flies around the side,
staring out at empty sea to check
for a ray of turbulent hope,
amidst endless hollow water,
we should be sailing proud, yet
sipping secretly, demoralised by the spirit.
So push on me hearties and fly the Jolly Roger!
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