Red Fire Coming Out From His Gills
Tim Smith
King of all lice
Of wood ship building
Believing that his sink is clean
But Mr Sun's too high up in sky
And the sea's far too big for drowning
Erecting fin time
Cut through the ocean waves
One million miles an hour
Faster than a torpedo
Morbid seas
The morbid breeds
Untidy seas
Meanwhile on the wrong side of fences
All killing and dashing of brains
Next to normal life with games and companions
Shouting too loud for him to sing
Are all his blackbirds
Inside the steely metal gut of famous
Action Fish cutting the waves
Firing hot red fire from his gills
The more we steals
The more we feels