The Ballad of Transport #18
Words and music by Leslie Fish © 1976


        Am                      G             E
We were thirty-eight crewmen on Transport Eighteen.
       E7            Am       G
The hour it was late and the talk was obscene,
                C                  G            C       G
When the raiders streaked down and their bright lasers cut
     E                             E7          Am
Some twenty-odd holes through her steel-plated gut.

Chorus:
	     C                             G
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	                  E                 E7          Am
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

All the engines were dead and the life-systems shot,
And the ship leaking air like the steam of a pot.
When the crew was accounted, and all damage told,
The last airtight chamber was the fifth cargo hold.

Chorus:
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

So we yelled S.O.S. with our beacons and flares,
And we ran for the hold by the last standing stairs.
We sealed off the ports and we gave a great cheer
When we found that the cargo was twelve tons of beer.

Chorus:
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

We were fairly well mellowed when our answer came through,
Via transporter sparkle and a brief flash of blue.
'Twas a space-suited Navy man, calm and correct,
Though his green pointed ears weren't quite what you'd expect.

Chorus:
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

He raised one long eyebrow as he noted our fun,
And he calmly announced that our troubles weren't done;
For his ship was off fighting the raiders alone,
So we'd have to reach safety somehow on our own.

Chorus:
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

He said, "There's a space station, not far at all
We could reach in two days at a jet-powered crawl.
Now jets are quite simple; we could build one from here--
Just a valve-line to the surface from one tank of beer."

Chorus:
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

So we cheered our salvation and we mourned for the brew
As we sealed all the pipes as he showed us to do.
Then we opened a fuel line with the ship aimed toward home,
And we rode to the station on a long wake of foam.

Chorus:
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

So at last, when the ship came to take us in tow,
Just an hour from the station with three tanks to go,
We drank up the fuel and were feeling no pain
When the Navy man left us with a look of disdain.

Chorus:
	So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
	For there's no guarantee that we'll ever come home.

Final Chorus:
	So cheer for us sailors riding in on the foam.
	We were drunker than lords by the time we got home!