A Routine Run Ashore

At a funky bar called the Fallen Star
I'm beating a path to the door
the paint's peeled and the ceiling's low
but the hookers look hotter than a July pancake
It's a whale hunt and I cant wait
for the harpoon frenzy to start

All that sweaty make-up
waving lace in your face
I'm gonna wallow in a sea
of sexual blood and gore
forget all about Neptune's salty kisses
forget I'm me if I can
I'm gonna munch my way
through all  those bitches
one by dirty one
I'll wait till they're gagging for seconds
then I'll steal back my money
rip it outta their garters
and swing from the chandelier
whiskey bottle in hand
slicker than Errol Flynn
in a black and white 1934

After three weeks at sea
terra-firma fever
turns a man into a pirate
First it grabs your throat
then it massages your balls
and finally after a week
of soaking in a hot tub
you're almost home salt free

But if you're a sailor
you can never stay dry
because there's no such thing
as the last drop
while your real mistress
is waiting at the dock
with a gleam in her eye
to drag you
back on board