(Verse 1) Old Cookie’s a bastard with one foggy eye, He serves up a stew that’d make a dog cry, And the "beef" in the barrel has started to die! He’s greasy as tallow and mean as a snake, With a crust on his apron no hammer could break, From the gray, oily puddles of broth that he’ll make! (Chorus) Hear the pots go a-clatter and the pans go a-bang, As we string up the Cook where the salt-cod once hung, And we’ll cut out the rot with a sharp, rusty fang! No more of his slop and no more of his grit, We’ll season his carcass and toss it in the pit, But... (Verse 2) The hardtack is walkin', it’s sprouted some legs, There’s maggots a-dancin’ in all of the eggs, And the juice in the flagon is poured from the dregs! He stirs with a mop that’s been dipped in the bilge, The soup smells of sulfur and old-crusted filth, And it sticks to your ribs like a bucket of milch! (Chorus) Hear the pots go a-clatter and the pans go a-bang, As we string up the Cook where the salt-cod once hung, And we’ll cut out the rot with a sharp, rusty fang! No more of his slop and no more of his grit, We’ll season his carcass and toss it in the pit, But... (Verse 3) The tea tastes like kerosene, soap, and despair, I’m fairly certain I found a thumb-hair, And a tooth in the porridge that shouldn't be there! We asked for some salt and he gave us a slap, So we’re tyin’ him down to the galley-hatch trap, To feed him the scrapings of rat-bitten sap! (Bridge) Don’t rattle the tins or the cups on the shelf, The Cook’s in the larder a-talkin' to self, And countin' his gold like a miserly elf! We’ll creep through the dark with a mallet and chain, To hammer the rot from his moldy old brain, And wash all the grease out with blood and the rain! (Verse 4) The Captain is starvin’ and we’re doin’ fine, Sippin’ on Cook’s hidden bottle of wine, And hookin' his carcass on a heavy-gauge line! The stove is a-roarin', the fire is high, We’re eatin' his parrot in a big messy pie, And watchin' the red sparks fly up to the sky! (Final Chorus) Hear the pots go a-clatter and the pans go a-bang, As we string up the Cook where the salt-cod once hung, And we’ll cut out the rot with a sharp, rusty fang! No more of his slop and no more of his grit, We’ll season his carcass and toss it in the pit!

The Cook is a Bastard