We’re taking to sea in a cardboard box,
In a cardboard box, just you and me:
We’re taking to sea in a cardboard box,
And a cardboard box we’re taking to (sea, see).
For breakfast we’ll dine on the fallen divine
And caviar steeped in chablis:
They say hearth is the heart of the home is the heart,
So we’ll take it to anchor our craft undersea.
We’ll boil our tears in the samovar,
So that at lunch we’ll have crumpets and tea
Our arms may be small, but there’s spite enough in them
To paddle the river and (o’er, oar, /or) the sea.
We’ll moor up our carrack with carricks
Bent Penrose in pretzels wrapped all ‘round the (quay, key)
Oh, Shenandoah, you know they don’t mean it,
But there’s no time for (mourning, morning) at sea.
July 12, 2021