For seven years we scoured the seven seas And at our mast we flew the Jolly Roger We learned to mend our ship in storm or breeze And if a plank were sprung, by Christ weíd bodge her! Now the navyís firing shots across our bows The seaís dead calm; the crew is all hung-over But the captain merely smiles at us and vows: It isnít over until itís over! The flagship frigate turns herself broadside And clouds of smoke start pouring from her scuppers Audaciously our cannons then reply Destruction! Death! Theyíre singing for their suppers! Weíve been through worse; it looks like our luckís in But storms are brewing; and weíre holed, moreover. The captain shouts above the hellish din: - It isnít over until itís over!
Through telescopes a hundred glaring eyes Spy us grey and smoky from our sallies But they will never view us in the guise Of slaves chained up to oars in navy galleys!
Weíve been outgunned! Our ship is going to sink! Weíll never get to see the cliffs of Dover! But our captain doesnít ever even blink! - It isnít over until itís over! Who wants to live, whoís merry, keep your grip - And prepare yourself for vicious cutthroat fighting! Weíll let the rats get off the sinking ship - We can do without them at our ankles biting! The rats were thinking that the captain lied Abandon ship! They all died sober! But we heave to along the frigateís side. - It isnít over until itís over! Knife to cutlass, fist to gullet, eye to eye! Lest we be food for octopus or conger, Our pistols and our sabers make them cry, - Their vessel wonít be floating for much longer! But itís not meant to be, she wonít go down Sheíll carry us to port - weíll be in clover For the ocean never lets the sailor drown Who doesnít say itís over... until itís over.
© Tommy Beavitt. Translation, ?
© Tommy Beavitt. Performance, ?