| The windjammer's pickin' up, with the old man's Virginia Blend | |
| Cuttin' to the quick, with his navy cut | |
| Hoping that no one will take notice of the ragged dirt on his shirt sleeve | |
| He wants a song, to practice his drinking | |
| The girl with the jukebox voice | |
| Lost in the memory but caught in the riptide | |
| Undertow... overload | |
| Bale on my job, slip on my ship | |
| Drown beneath the surface | |
| Fall to the wreckage, get snapped on a line | |
| With crayfish and bottom dwellers | |
| Dreams of the thinkers, the expert drinkers | |
| And the wave of new regulars rollin' in | |
| Come close, stand near, let me hear what you hear | |
| Put one down | |
| Put one down | |
| Put one down | |
| Put one down |
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