You never close your eyes
In crow's nest of a whaling ship.
The captain tends to be
Rather pissed if you let one slip.
And then you see one blowhole it (Moby?)
Not Moby! Moby's our sole hit.

Ship's log: the men are dealing
With Ahab's mad-quest, reeling.
I think empathic feeling
From him's gone, gone, gone. Loo-oo-oo-oo-oon.

We hoped for lemons and
Some sweet limes when we reached Peru.
But he won't stop 'cause the critter prize
Trumps our scurvy too.
Just one thing should we be eyeing: Moby;
For Moby, all of us will be dying.

Ship's log: the men are squealing,
They've got no limes for peeling,
This voyage is unappealing:
For years gone, gone, gone: two-o-o-o-o.

Moby! Moby! Ahab's on his knees cursing you.
We moan and groan, landlubb'ry, disaffected crew.

We're on this tub, landlubs, no grub,
And we're getting no pay.
"This boat won't float," note in the log today.

Moby's rolling! Holy Moly!
He's coming full speed. Sheeet!

Steams to the tub,
He reams the tub,
He creams the tub,
Splits seams of tub.
Thought whales don't attack,
I heard the beams crack,
New Bedford shack--
I wish I were back.

Ship's log: the Pequod's keeling,
Ahab's white piqued god's sealing
Our fate; the Pequod's keeling,
Then it's gone, gone, gone,
Just one man lives on.
[protracted gurgling sound]

Bring back the lubber feeling
Desire to have gone sealing
And had that clubbing feeling:
He'd go conk! conk! conk!
Beat no conch, conch conch. . . .