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A tramp steamer plies an ocean of fog. 
The Chief Bos’n makes a note in the log while the helmsman 
Strains to see beyond the wheel. 
The ship’s Captain leaves the bridge with a groan. 
It’s his preference to be dining alone in his cabin, 
Wolfing down a full course meal.
His life’s mission is to nourish his girth, 
A bad habit he acquired at birth in Havana; 
Homeless when his parents split. 
He grew hungry and was soon on the make.  
He learned quickly how to manage his take as a smuggler. 
Taught himself to hawk and spit.

The Chief Bos’n is a man to avoid; 
A bad number since he first was employed in Malaya, 
Rigging for the Captain’s firm: 
A line parted and his broken bones stung;
A fool’s negligence at fault left him hungry for justice, 
Swears he’ll make the Captain squirm.
He sits back and strokes his sandpaper skin 
As spit dribbles down the side of his chin and he mumbles 
Something ‘bout a debt he’s owed. 
A light’s glowing on the wireless set,
The key tapping like surreal castanets to a tango 
Dancing up a lively code.

Return message from Kuala Lumpur; 
The Chief Bos’n does his best to ensure the transmission 
Says just what he thinks it does. 
He writes quickly and his words are a blur:
The ship’s heading, average speed and its current position; 
Steady as it ever was.
The Chief Bos’n gives his watch to the Turk. 
They both know that if the plan’s gonna work they need timing; 
That and just a little luck. 
The fog cloaks their view of Borneo’s coast.
The Turk tells him that the crew will be mostly in favor; 
Others just won’t give a f**k.

The Turk checks to find the passageway clear. 
He takes something from his pocket to smear on the bulkhead, 
Contemplating his reward. 
He makes certain he’s got none on his hands
And moves swiftly then to follow the standard procedure: 
Evidence goes overboard.
A cage rattles somewhere down in the hold. 
The stale urine and the odor of mold from the bilges 
Doesn’t bug the Bos’n much. 
The lock’s prodded by his marlinespike’s tip;
His legs braced against the roll of the ship with a stanchion 
Serving as a make-shift crutch.

The door opens and a nightmare’s set loose. 
Its wild instincts serve to make it a useful assassin; 
Nature’s gonna do her thing. 
The ape scrambles up the ladder to where
The scent beckons, and it bristles the hair of the Bos’n 
When he hears the fat man “sing.”
The two sailors at the fantail look up 
In mid-sentence when a scream interrupts their discussion, 
“Sounded like the Captain’s voice!” 
He lay silent with his face to the sky.
“His back’s broken,” they observe, then they spy the gorilla 
Climbing up the cargo hoist.

The Chief Bos’n takes his .45 out. 
“He’s dead monkey, boys,” they all hear him shout as he fires, 
Plugging him with seven slugs. 
The Turk, seeing where the ape hit the deck
With blood flowing in a stream from its neck to a scupper, 
Sadly shakes his head and shrugs.
The next morning goes according to plan. 
The crew witnesses a change of command off Sumatra. 
Everyone applauds the deal. 
The new Captain’s at the head of the line
With beef jerky and a bottle of wine on the table 
Serving as a full course meal.
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