Friday the Thirteenth

Friday the Thirteenth

We sailed on a Friday, I’m sorry to say,
Our troubles began on the very first day.
The sea it was rough, we all started to spew,
And the cook let his choppers fall into the stew.

The following day t’was a block in the head;
Our old engineer: “Tis a mermaid,” he said—
“I think I’ve got hold of her—“ that was his end;
She whisked him through the stopcock and clean round the bend.

The next day was worse, the potatoes weren’t done;
Someone left the ice cream lying out in the sun.
The champagne was warm and the dinner was late;
Piping hot from the stove—to the floor—to the plate.

The fourth day Alas the TV wouldn’t go,
The mate dropped a marlinspike onto his toe.
The stawberries were tasteless, the beer it was flat;
And Pussy was sick in the Captain’s best hat.