An association of washed up, defunct divers Sits on docks and talks of gills and girls They all obsess but none can swim inside her They speak of fins and rocks and shells and pearls
Their crippling fears and painful ear conditions Have kept them firmly planted on the shore And they cling to every ear that pretends to listen They've wrung the necks of rude, impatient whores
Back and forth the sailors go! Back and forth the sailors go! From ship to ship to get some more
I've got it in my head tonight I'm gonna tie myself to a submarine I'm going down, deep out of the reach of light Where the plants don't grow And the fish are mean like me
