Row, row, row…

Sailing past the silent sirens
I request of them a song
Cause you know my ship’s been (w)reckless
For unfathomably long.
Should you choose to raise the dead
Be sure to raise them well
Or they might grow up
To become a living hell.

Tie me to the mast!
Plug my ears with beeswax!
Pray we’ll safely sail past!
As we brace the rowdy rapids and row.

With my craft as my raft,
We brace the rowdy rapids
With my craft as my raft,
We brace the rowdy rapids
With my craft as my raft,
We brace the rowdy rapids
and row…

Trouble up ahead
Trouble underneath
White crests and the depths
Sirens singing us to sleep.
A flash of light reveals a sight
Sailors fear to see:
A field of masts with ragged sails
rising from the reef.

A little known fact about the sirens is that their deathly serenade was not charged with malignant intent. The sirens themselves had a curse rested upon them—the curse of eternal life, and of possessing a voice so beautiful that if any man would hear it, they would bear the weight of the ultimate rock song. But were a man to pass by unscathed, not only will he have heard that song and overcome death’s calling, he would also have lifted the curse of immortality from them, allowing the sirens to perish peacefully…

With my craft as my raft,
We brace the rowdy rapids
With my craft as my raft,
We brace the rowdy rapids
With my craft as my raft,
We brace the rowdy rapids
and row…

Weary of the water
star-bored and bored with land
keep up your stoic rowing patterns
So I may understand
this song of death that’s sung to me
with mantic empathy
could hypnotize or paralyze
For all eternity
or tie willful mortal men
to the mast of their self-mastery.