Heave ho! Farewell to the quay! Merry sailors, sailors we
The horizon is our proscenium, our dead will come to know the sea
Our cook is a wanted man, 1000 thalers for each hand
Our captain lost his good sense, driven by a Lazarus’ words
Have you not been told of Lazarus? He felt the icy grip
Brought back by a morphine drip, he told the captain this:
“Tragedy! Tragedy! Death has you fooled!
No throne of bone, no terranean pool
No scythe, no cowl, no skeletons
His greatest trophy is this myth!
Every sailor, salmon, every carp
Will follow rivers to the source
Only the dead will know the course
Do you want to know of the afterworld?”