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.
----- <        contents        >