I was out fishin' on the Zuider Zee,
Had a fifth of Dutch gin inside o' me.
I got a bite on my line out to trawl,
I hauled it in till my gin-binged strength did stall.

"Gaff bream!" was the advice I heard.
Gaff bream? The thought hadn't occurred.
Gaffed bream. . .staff stuck like a sharp thorn.
Grappled fish in and switched to liquor made of corn.

When I got settled, started swiggin' brown
Bourbon, not nectar of redneck renown.
We'd tossed the Jack off; tossed the Jim down.
Drunk, we drifted dang'rously past the sound.

Quaffed Beam--crocked till our words were slurred,
Quaffed Beam--snockered, we had not heard.
Cracked beams--socked by the surging storm;
We'd turned off the radio; we could have been warned.

There's few exceptions in the sailing game:
If you can't bail out, you go down the drain.
We bailed without fail, each and every man
And made progress--we might yet see dry land.

Land seen! Above hovers a bird. . .
Gaffe seen, I guess Jeff hadn't heard--
Blast scene; masts lean--it is bad form
To shoot an albatross; it means a piscine dorm.