The Typist

The Sailor gets a part time job in late-nite data entry-ing now that the offworld fishing industry is on the fritz…

how could I ever leave my poor little scuttlebug
so careless and free, she’s my little scuttlebug
when the lights turning low
on my little precious one

I’m call her lonely name on high
for all that she doth show
in the heaven’s light doth shine
in the calm of the leaves
in the waking of night (?)[I don’t remember what I was supposed to be singing here, ha]

how could I ever leave my sweet little scuttlebug
so fancy and free, she’s my little scuttlebug
when the lights sinking low
on my little precious one