Drawbridge

There’s a drawbridge open on the edge of the sea

As the ice cold mist is surrounding me;

I am caught in the currents so far from home

I ne’er thought that I would sail alone

I spy in the distance an ominous craft

And maneuver my sails to catch the draft.

I approach the intruder with the wind at my back

With my breech-gun loaded I make my attack

With a splinter of timber our ships collide

And we’re carried to the bottom by our weight of pride.

My gun lies ready in my cold, dead hand

As our precious cargo makes its grave in the sand.