I’m getting fired up to depart,
got a fever to fish, for anything, except a shark.
Heineken I’ll bring along for the beer. . .
going to get the snell out and the other ship wares.
Before I leave I’ll squeeze some orange juice,
and I think it’s time I dined on last night’s mold mousse,
also that ancient apple tarte—
can’t leave it in the dish.
I’m bringing out leftovers to scarf.

Scarfing up old grub is something I love
before I’m fishing, where I’m going out to trawl.
Embark on a tub that is defenseless
should we be dealing
with pirates or a squall
(chances of either are mighty paltry).
Trolling in the deep
we will have a ball, trolling in the deep.
We get a start and push off from land
and head way out into the open sea.
These forays are such a treat—
how I love to trawl, trolling in the deep.

Crazy are some fish stories that have been told,
such as that about “Bruce.”
It’s the one that over time earned
for Benchley lots of gelt; Steve got his share.
They got rich; the pair
created needless scare.

’cause we ain’t looking to bring up Brucie—
that idea’s dumb, so get out the chum,
whose odor appalls—nose kink in the reek.
And speaking metaphorically of ill-wind squalls!
But now let’s fish; I’m gonna get me
some char or some chub and eat a best fress—
that’ll be post-trawl, trolling in the deep.
I start a-reeling, because a victim calls
and takes the bait; I haul feverishly.
Holy shit, it’s deep!

Reeling in my haul, trolling in the deep:
the hurting starts in both of my hands,
but still I keep reeling feverishly.
Fingers splayed are getting beat,
like hit by a maul—trolling in the deep.
I hope that I don’t fall,
roll into the deep.
I spawn a fart from leftovers land—
can’t allay it; out it’s creeping.

From butthole the stench begins to roar (Oh!)
Wow, it’s wretched; hope I’ll brook no more (No!)
Love to narrow septum with wrench hold (No!)
But I must reel that line and can’t stanch stench in nose (No!)

It’s worse than fish left out for days, many—
I’m wishing for a squall
clearing air of all odors from in, deep.
But I will heed the call
of the big fish on the line, a myst’ry.
I haul and haul and haul.
Here comes a small squall! Odor then recedes.

I get back to the haul,
to get that fish, which is still a myst’ry.
Holy shit, it’s deep!

(The OS never stalls! Goes on without cease—
seems once it starts it will never land;
this bloated shtik goes for eternity,
and it ain’t an aural treat
Speaking of the squalls: vocals just repeat.)

In I’m about to haul
this giant fish that has nearly killed me
trolling in the deep.
An exhausting trawl. . .whoa! that throat is deep!!
A Great White shark bites off friend Nate’s hand.
How I don’t wish I’d fished successfully.

Now it takes mitts,
it takes bits
of Nate; shit!
Bruce mate rips, chews his feet.