HMS Randalls

On the deck of the HMS Randalls

Were sorry array of antiques

They would amble about in their sandals

To a chorus of ominous creaks

The crackle of bone upon gristle

With a litany grumbled above

Just give them the slip

If you feel a grip

Like a handful of dice in a glove

 

In the galley of HMS Randalls

Where the tables were screwed to the floor

There’s a chef with a dwarf where his leg was

He was bombed in the Argentine war

If you ask him about his ‘prosthetic’

He just winks and he taps on his nose

But the dwarf will admit

That they make a good fit

And a noteworthy total of toes

 

At the engines of HMS Randalls

With her overalls smeared with blood

Stood cannibal kind of mechanic

By the name of Veronica Spud

Her hunger has never been sated

Or her eye been the source of a tear

Her teeth have been chipped

Into screwdriver tips

And a spanner protrudes from her ear

 

On the bridge of the HMS Randalls

Sits the captain, Geronimo Spent

His unblinking and pallid expression

Say he left but he never quite went

But he puts on his hat and his jacket

He fastidiously logs his report

With a secondary list

Of the passengers kissed

As he figures that life’s too short