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Cold Supper
The smell of vittles all thrown in a pot.
The stronger the odor, the more moldy the lot.
Don’t cry or it Sally, it’ll spoil the gin.
Davy Jones’ locker is where we’ll all end.
Davy Jones’ locker is where we’ll all end.
So away with sad faces and raise up the mug.
Smile at death as you drink down the suds.
The canons will rumble and the muskets will roll.
When the battle is finished our food will be cold.
When the battle is finished our food will be cold.