---------Prelude
 
The song we willfully sing
In our sinking submarine—
 
Some of the sailors are laughing,
Others are getting drunk—
 
Is but a prelude to the song
We'll sing when the submarine's sunk
 
And we're reduced to tapping
On bulwarks growing hot
 
The number of the living,
The number of the not;
 
Still I'll sing with all my might,
Knowing that I've made my bed
 
And only singing could ever serve
To raise me from the dead.
 
 
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