On the portside whores are singing while the rubbers
they are flinging of a night of fornicating
with sailors far away
While the sun it is setting the fishermen are netting the 
whores
And the sailors they are ithing their syphillis is 
twitching a gift
of those bewitching whores now far away
The sailors they are singing for soon
they will be drowning on the sea
on which they're sailing now so far away