Jack he sits alone by the waterfront, Waiting for the Ghoststip to come, All his bags are packed for a voyagefrom which he knows he wil never return. Looming through the fog glides the Ghost ship rotting from crows nest to keel, Not a soul was seen to steer her, Save a corpse lashed to the wheel. The horned moon is pinned by its splintered mast, Grey torn shrouds that once were sails, Dead men stir from their sleep in the holdtheir jaws lined with dust, their song but a wail. Their mouths hung by threads, their eyes are a hollow, calling Iike demons, restless in chains, A Ghost ship cursed to sail on forevermore, Timbers shriek but not with the strain.