Storm and a mountin’ chop: it’s tempesty;
seamen’s fate ain’t on land but the sea;
Ain’t any woods at a distance to see;
a wish for sandbars is only fantasy.

Davy’s, Davy’s locker—
sink many guys down there.

Ought to abandon ship in friggin’ storm;
fills, this creaking ship. . .no lifeboats—bad form!
Nice to be on land where it’s safe and warm,
makin’ out with women inside a dorm.

Davy’s, Davy’s locker—
where many will repair.

But they can’t have congress with some sweet belle;
fixin’ up this tub wasn’t done very well.
It’s like a washing machine, this swell;
can’t patch all the cracks; the deck’s slipp’ry as hell.

Davy’s, Davy’s locker—
screechin’ wind in the air.

While back at home, some picnic under the sun;
above deck, the spars in wind do hum.
Sailing in this weather is kinda dumb;
the men are not grinnin’: they know it’s all done.

Davy’s, Davy’s locker—
seems that life just ain’t fair.

Gonna lose the tub in this big squall;
ichthyotic creatures will bear the pall.
Seamen lost in the kelp forest tall.
You might now say they’re the bait that trawls.

Davy’s, Davy’s locker—
they got a deal not square.

No land for swimmin’ to, just damn waves’ crest.
Ass is grass, it’s plain, so no clownin’ jests.
They’re all dead in the squall, beat in the sea’s test;
the swallowed up Edmund on the wet floor rests.

Davy’s, Davy’s locker—
they never had a pray’r.