An’ we seemed the core an’ bowels of a gob of
wind an’ yeast.
We smashed our way to suth’ard, an’ we clawed
an’ ratched to west,
There was scarcely time for eatin’; there was
never chance for rest,
With the liners slammin’ past us through the
fog an’ spume an’ rain,
An’ the Mary dodgin’ passers like a puppy in a
lane.