Friggin in the Riggin Friggin in the riggin, Friggin in the riggin, Friggin in the riggin, There's nothing else to do. Twas back in `69, We left the Black Ball Line, The crew did cry as we went by, For we'd left our mates behind. Twas back in `63, When the captain he went to sea, Born of a whore, was cast ashore, A son of the beach was he. A cook whose name was Davey, Was cashiered from the Navy, He dipped the bread inside the head, And served it up as gravy. The bosun's mate was Andy A Portsmouth man and randy, He used to cool his favorite tool In a glass of the skipper's brandy. The cabin boy was chipper, A nasty little nipper. He lined his ass with broken glass And circumsised the skipper. JY
Thanks to Mudcat for the Digital Tradition!