You lads see me,
wash the glasses,
wipe the floors, make the beds.
I'm the best of servants.
You can kindly throw me pennies
and I thank you very much.
And you see me ragged and tattered
in this dirty shit hotel.
You don't know in hell who's talking.
You still don't know in
hell who's talking.
Yet one fine day
there will be roars from the harbour
and you'll ask what is
all that screeching for
and you'll see me smiling
as I don't the glasses
and you'll say what's she
got to smile at for and the ship
Eight sails shining,
fifty -five cannons white,
sir, waits there at the quay.
You say, work on,
wipe the glasses, my girl,
and just slip me a dirty sixpence,
And your pennies will be taken
and your bets will be made
But I doubt if forty winks
will come anybody's way
You still don't know
in hell who's talking
You still don't know
in hell who's talking
Still one fine day
there'll be a loud bang from the harbour
And you'll ask Je sus Christ
what was that bang
And you'll see me standing
right behind the window
And you'll say,
why's she got the evil eye?
And the ship, eight sails shining,
55 cannons wide, sir,
it will be aimed at this time.
So then lads, time for tears,
no more laughs at the bar,
for the walls'll be at your ankles.
And look out lads,
the town will be flat as the ground,
this dirty shit hotel
will be spared rack and ruin.
And you'll say,
who's the fancy bitch lives there?
You'll say,
who's the fancy bitch lives there.
There'll be rows of people
running round the hotel
and you'll ask,
why should they have spared this hovel?
And you'll see me in the
morning leaving lightly
an d you'll say, that one, her,
she lived there.
The same ship, eight sails shining,
fifty -five cannons wide, sir,
flies crossbones and skull.
In the midday sun
a hundred men will step ashore
All tramping where your
shadows crawled
They'll lay their hands on men
hiding shit scared behind doors
Lead them in chains here
before this silent woman
And they'll say, well,
which ones shall we kill?
They'll say, which ones shall we kill?
Come the dot of twelve,
it will be still in the harbour.
Oh, and they ask me,
well, who's going to die?
An d you'll hear me whispering,
oh, so sweetly, all of them.
And as the soft heads fall,
I'll say, hopla, that same ship,
eight sails shining,
fifty -five Canon's white sun
Disappears
With me