Friggin in the riggin,
Friggin in the riggin,
Friggin in the riggin,
There's nothing else to do.

Twas back in `69,
We left the Black Ball Line,
The crew did cry as we went by,
For we'd left our mates behind.

Twas back in `63,
When the captain he went to sea,
Born of a whore, was cast ashore,
A son of the beach was he.
A cook whose name was Davey,
Was cashiered from the Navy,
He dipped the bread inside the head,
And served it up as gravy.

The bosun's mate was Andy
A Portsmouth man and randy,
He used to cool his favorite tool
In a glass of the skipper's brandy.

The cabin boy was chipper,
A nasty little nipper.
He lined his ass with broken glass
And circumsised the skipper.