Out on the ocean, we set our sails,
A mariner's tale through the stormy gales,
An albatross soaring, a symbol of grace,
We cheered and we hailed, in that desolate place.

But oh, the mariner's hand,
Struck down the bird that graced our land,
Now a curse upon our fate,
In this vast and empty expanse.

The winds they did die, the sun stood still,
A silent sea, a foreboding chill,
With heavy hearts and parched dry throats,
We paid the price for what we wrote.

Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink,
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

The dead men stood with vacant eyes,
As the mariner faced his solemn cries,
A life of penance, a tale to tell,
To wander the earth, a living shell.

A lesson learned through endless strife,
To cherish all that shares our life,
The albatross, a spirit's guide,
In every heart, the truth does bide.

Now hear the mariner's call,
Respect the life that binds us all,
For every action bears its weight,
In the web of our shared fate.

The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly;
Why should not wheels go round about,
Like planets in the sky?

Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs;
What though you're awkward at the trade,
There's time enough to learn,—
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.

They've built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We've nothing in the world to do
But just to walk about;
So faster, now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends,—
It's pleasant work to ramble round
Among one's honest friends.

Here, tread upon the long man's toes,
He sha'n't be lazy here,—
And punch the little fellow's ribs,
And tweak that lubber's ear,—
He's lost them both,—don't pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,
But poke him in the further eye,
That is n't in the patch.

Hark! fellows, there's the supper-bell,
And so our work is done;
It's pretty sport,—suppose we take
A round or two for fun!
If ever they should turn me out,
When I have better grown,
Now hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own!