From Earl P. Pilgrim's "Drifting into Doom"
I want no fuss with the pale faced cuss
The jerk or piano tuner,
Who spend their lives in dirty dives
In their struggle for more bologna.
But give me the windswept ocean's rise
Where the dog-fish swirl and the stearin cries
And the salt brine cakes to your blistered eyes
As you pull for the side of the schooner.
I don't want to fight in the bars at night
Where the gangs are loud and swearing.
I don't like the rattle of boxcar-trains
As they thunder on down through the mountain,
But give me the sounds of the breakers roar
Where they lift the trawls from the ocean floor
And the puffin squawks at the tide's deep bore
As we pull for the side of the schooner.
I want no fuss with the pale faced cuss
The jerk or piano tuner,
Who spend their lives in dirty dives
In their struggle for more bologna.
But give me the windswept ocean's rise
Where the dog-fish swirl and the stearin cries
And the salt brine cakes to your blistered eyes
As you pull for the side of the schooner.
I don't want to fight in the bars at night
Where the gangs are loud and swearing.
I don't like the rattle of boxcar-trains
As they thunder on down through the mountain,
But give me the sounds of the breakers roar
Where they lift the trawls from the ocean floor
And the puffin squawks at the tide's deep bore
As we pull for the side of the schooner.
