Fishermen

On the portside whores are singing
While the rubbers they are flinging
From a night of fornicating
From a night of lubricating
With sailors far away
While the sun it is setting
The fishermen are netting
The whores, sperm they are begetting
The whores, sperm they are forgetting
Of sailors far away
And the sailors they are itching
Their syphilis is twitching
A gift Of those bewitching
Whores now far away
The sailors they are singing
For soon they will be drowning
In the sea on which they’re sailing
Their lives they will be failing
On seas now far away