The Ballad of Transport 18

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

So pity us poor sailors, wherever we roam,
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 off a pot.
When the crew was accounted and all damage told,
The last air-tight chamber was the fifth cargo hold.

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

So we yelled SOS 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.

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.

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.

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."

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,
And we sealed on the pipes, as he showed us to do.
Then we opened the fuel line with the ship aimed toward home.
And we rode to the station on a long wake of foam.

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

So at last when his 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.

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

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

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