REARRANGING DECK CHAIRS

The crew are winching lifeboats down into the freezing sea.
The band is on the boatdeck playing Nearer My God To Thee
I am an able seaman charged with maintenance and repairs,
The bos'n says, “Go up on deck and rearrange the chairs.”

He thinks they’ve fallen over so I have to go and check
And bring a bucket and a mop so I can swab the deck.
The ship is slowly sinking while the boilers team and smoke,
I gaze around and wonder if there isn’t something broke.

A thousand squealing Norway rats are diving off the side
But I’m not going to follow them, a worker has his pride.
The jewel-bedazzled heiresses and self-made millionaires
Are crowding into lifeboats as I rearrange the chairs.

They’ve locked the doors to steerage so the poor folks can’t get out
“There isn’t room for all of you,” I heard the Captain shout.
The Irish and Italian are all kneeling, saying prayers
While up here on the quarterdeck I’m rearranging chairs.