Passed around the campfire, like cold whiskey rye, has long been a story of a river boat on high. A siren on a Saturday in line with a row of smoke. Chugging through the Mississippi where fools rock the boat. Crying, "don't you believe me!" "Well, what's it take?" A half soul and three pence for a jug and icing on the cake. The sirens wailing, said, "come have some fun." Those sailors jumped right in; danced to the sinking sun. Hootin' and hollerin' to the wild wicked moon. As crazed as dog bane, but you'll sure pay soon. Up came the toll - hat passed around. The sailors had nothing, not a soul to be found. That's what yah' get, boys, when you give the devil due, but he's a fair poker; now you'll be too. Folks don't believe me when I tell my wary tale. Those damned rosewater's for a night of glutton and ale. Mark my words clearly, when you see a ship of white turn stern and flee or work the Devil's shift all night.