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.
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