Flying Cloud, sails
south round the Cape
no tourists aboard this time out
not many slaves
no clanking of shackles
only the smell and hope
chained by the ankle
Bananas and coffee
piled high down below
the blue sky, the topmasts
sailors all dancing
high on the weedsmoke
rolling out from the shore
Jasper Springs where we landed
fresh as prawns from the sea
jumbled green timber
(a prospectors haven)
whores, dice and whisky
nooses hanging from trees
First night a calamity
shot out of sleep
we watched the deceased
fall like leaves in a breeze
Bullets are gone
our tattoo's are peeling
the crew wishes all mighty
fool's gold was as pretty
as a sunrise at sea
Cold winter is howling
we're down to the marrow
we horde the last virtues
to heat our lost souls
on the way to Perdition
Pity the sailors so far from the sea
...
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