It was eight o' clock this morning
When he sailed below
Crossing Wansey lorries on the Thames,
A route he must know
That will take him off and far away
They say that he was looking for the coast
But if he only knew this island
Was causing him the most grief!
And can you tell what he's seen?
Because the lines upon his face
Are like a map to where he's been
And would you please stop?
The ground and all the buildings I am
Sinking well below,
I am thinking we must go
To the crowded house
Up on the corner to
Where all the televisions are turned on
And he was famous for a while
Oh what a story, what a style,
Till that whale, till that whale
That got lost.
Man on a boat, where have you been?
I secretly wish I was your friend
Your fish, they're all dead and all you'll find
Are boots on the riverbed that I threw last night.
And it was nine o' clock this morning,