We point that spar toward paradise
And head east, out to sea,
And if the wind is right, we can sail away
And find tranquility.
The bulkheads are all sere until
The tub gets creaky,
Then leaky.

It's real far from dess'cant desert land.
We're out at the deep end.
The land's end's out of sight;
We can spy no buoy.
Inundation seeps in.
Although we don't hear it, it fills
Up with briny sea,
We don't see.

Sailing takes us away
To where it ain't terra firmary.
The bilge fills--schooner sans infirmary,
And doomed we soon will be.

Fathoms we
Are above bed of sea
As we're sailing.
All pause in the impure shanty--
Realize as in streams the sea:
Dryness sure's scanty.

Bailing, bailing away,
We're attempting to return the sea
To the place that it really ought to be:
Outside this drenched dinghy.

It's real far back to land, you see.
Stuck in this damn huge sea
Are we, fighting the waves as we bail away.
Not a sere entity,
We're chanting for a miracle.
An idea strikes me:

Baleen, take some and splay
Into the seam from which seeps the sea--
I knew some day it would come in handy.
And soon all are thanking me.
The--masts failing.