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When sailing westward home I was
I smelled a rotten stench.
I opened up the quarter gallery doors
I thought it was my wench.
But nay, the only fishy smell
Therein was our day's catch.
So what horrible miasma 'twas
If twasn't my lady's snatch?
When on the horizon I did spot
A trading ship approach.
Its nappy smell, a special hell
Enough to gag a roach.
Its course was plotted abreast our own
And pace for pace we matched,
Two galleons racing westward home
Their windows firmly latched.
At sunrise next we saw our port
And gave a hearty cheer.
The breeze picked up and plowed us forth
Our home was drawing near.
But the trade-ship and its awful stench
Kept with us pace for pace,
We loosed our sails to catch the wind
And win this rotten race.
For all the portholes were thrown wide
Stained with vomit from the riggers,
It was then and there we knew
Their hold was full of niggers.

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