Well, the tempest is rising, so get those sheets secure,
Staved-in boat is rockin', and we are miles from shore.
I can't belay it; all the ropes have frayed knots,
This weather makes me queasy, and the mate, he is shot.

And we're so sad we bail drips, so sad the sails slip--
They give us nothin' but luffin',
Nothin, nothin' but luffin'--
Not held down tight.

Well, there's heating wood, temperature is getting higher,
In centigrade, 53, and the mate is on fire.
The yardarm sways and the sails are all askew.
Where's the friggin' navy? Abandon ship now, crew!

We're not glad we take a dip, sad we took this trip.
I'm swimmin', huffin', and puffin',
Huffin', and puffin',
Not water-tight.

Where the sheeting stood--nothing but a spindly spire.
Don't want to sound mealy-mouthed, but situation's dire.
Far from the bay; hold on--this looks good!
Here's a mast that's intact. . .floats 'cause it made of wood.

Then I touch land; I've made it. Washed up, a frayed bit
Of a sail that was once luffin'.
Overhead a puffin
Drops a big shite.