If Bea sails to sea with her Beau,
She'll deserve to take a big bow,
When she goes to the bow with her bow,
And her bolt hits a bird on the bough.
'Cause the ship to shore distance is great,
And the flight of the arrow not straight.
And her heel is caught in a grate,
As her shot shoots over the strait.
And there's no time to pause or to wait,
Or to ponder the arrow head's weight.
And if all that isn't enough,
The ship takes a dip in the trough,
Of the waves grown increasingly rough,
And a spectator stifles a cough . . .
But you frown and your voice is quite gruff,
"Stop this boat, I want to get off!"
If you're blue in your mind that I blew,
Or thrown by the rhymes that I threw,
Grab a clew if you haven't a clue,
And simply give thanks that I'm through!
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