Th' Dry Blow

© 1998 Robert E. Dalton

Hatten down th' batches, boys, there's gonna be a blow. 
Th' mazzen mist is mizzen, an' th' spanker's hangin' low. 
Th' riggin's gittin' ragged, an' th' rog is rutten too, 
The anchor's on th' bawttom, an' th' captain's guzzlin' brew. 
  
                                                  
Th' mirstly fate is loaded an' th' bosun' got th' gout, 
Th' mainly mast is mizzen an' th' jib is juttin' out. 
A girlywhig is twirlin in t' make a spotter wout, 
An' th' gavinator's got his pomcass spinnin' all about. 
  
                                                  
Th' helmsman's got th' coopin' hough, an' ever' time he wheezes 
Th' rudder does a flip-flop amid th' balmy breezes. 
Th' rats are runnin' rampant down inside th' holdy mold, 
An' th' crupid stew was never known t' do what it was told.  


But keep a liffened upper stip, an' never mind th' weather, 
We've really mot it gade, boys, if we can stick together. 
Don't shurry 'bout th' wip, lads, or how th' storm has got 'er, 
Just think of how bad off we'd be...if we were on th' water. 


Ankles Aweigh, me lads!






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