In Harbor Town, on the Main Street,
Where in the taverns sailors meet,
The lager’s so strong,
And afternoons long,
It’s not strange to lose half one’s fleet.
The first mates will look down the alleys,
And ask all the Bridgets and Sallys,
But to their dismay,
With pleasure they’ll say,
They’ve gone back to vom in their galleys.
In Harbor Town, cultures collide;
The tongues, they wash in with the tide.
A clashing of words
Like you’ve never heard,
But, drinking, good faith is implied.
The locals don’t mind sailors’ dress
Or religions or tongues, they confess.
Why locals hate seamen,
What gets their blood steamin’:
Their shanties all suck, more or less.
In Harbor Town, when there’s a breeze,
The locals uncover old cheese,
And out on the bay,
The sailors all say,
“Tie me to the anchor, God, please!”
The airing of dairy is done,
When, in part thanks to the sun,
The air is so foul,
The sailors all howl,
And townspeople cheer, “Oh, what fun!” ♦