A bottle of rum, one for the scum, one for the souls of the departed ones.
Rum for the road, rum for the scum, rum for the wench with nails for toes.
No lying with women, no entangled toes, no time for love, no frolicking woes.
For Deano dances to the beat, he’s only one eye and a rotten sheet.
As Sally taps to the sound of a boron beat in a savage town.

The broth of a Scottish stout and a punch in the bearded mouth
is a reason to be drinking one of malaise and clout.
To one we all may know as the rum decides to flow.

A toothless whore and a flea ridden dog, I can’t see past the corset, the rum got me good.
The pagans are drinking as the fire is burning, the bitch was a floater and now she’s burning.
The tub men roll the barrels down, greeted with chanting, may the rum get me good.
Blood splattered corpses from a rum fuelled hoard, no use for justice, burn the witches.
As Sally taps to the sound of a boron beat in a savage town.

There’s blood in the rum, don’t you know.
There’s blood in the rum, don’t you know.
There’s blood in the rum, don’t you know.
There’s blood in the rum, don’t you know.

A bottle of rum, one for the scum, one for the soles of the departed ones.
Roll the stocks out, bring the fleecers, sharpen the axes and sweep the guts of the stages.
It’s time for high justice; gather the crowds as the hangman’s grin dribbles and snarls.
It’s all for the show, shout the rowdy wenches. Hang the bastards, hang the bastards.
As Sally taps to the sound of a boron beat in a savage town.