All around, there was a storm
on the vast Gitche Gumee.
The wind told tales in the wires
as the fellows’ tub careened.

It had sailed from Wisconsin;
to the Cleveland shore it steamed.
Soon beneath would be the graves. . . .
crew of fellows submarined.

They all died, marine fellows submarined,
fellows submarined. . . .
They all died in a freighter submarined,
freighter submarined. . . .

And a chef was one aboard,
came on deck from where grub was stored;
then the man had this to say:

“Fellas, too rough to feed ya grub o’ beans,
feed ya grub o’ beans. . . .
Fellas, good to know all you mugs it’s been,
all you mugs it’s been. . . .”

[Big waves ahead, Mr. Bosun, big waves ahead!
Color of lead is the water.
Cut, the radio. Say “Mayday”? No!
Bye-bye. Dirge. Die, die.
Capsize, capsize!]

They all died despite the pleas
of their loved ones dropped down to their knees
(love ones dropped down to their knees).
Feeling blue, prayers they keened
(feeling blue, prayers keened)
for the fellows submarined
(for their fellows submarined—Wah-wah!).

Twenty-nine died, the fellows submarined,
fellows submarined. . . .
Twenty-nine chimes the bell tolled; stunned, they keened,
bell tolled; stunned, they keened. . . .