Slowly goes this mighty prow;
This beast that slides on ever changing graves;
O'er the crest of the banshee,
Toward the beckoning call of Crete.
Do wield the monster sternly master,
For we bearer's of the beast need no distractions;
Riding on this stalker of killers,
Moving over the liquor of midnight shades,
Seeking that knife cutting through the darkness,
This monster calls, we go on attack,
To bring back our victorious prize,
And claim life's needed treasures,
The scythe wielding beast it is our savior and our killer,
Let the waves fall upon us;
Let the salt warp our skin;
Let the beast carry us out to oblivion;
Only let us find that great catch
And save us from an unfathomable doom.
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