Testo Divers

An association of washed up, defunct divers
Sits on docks and talks of gills and girls
They all obsess but none can swim inside her
They speak of fins and rocks and shells and pearls

Their crippling fears and painful ear conditions
Have kept them firmly planted on the shore
And they cling to every ear that pretends to listen They've wrung the necks of rude, impatient whores

Back and forth the sailors go!
Back and forth the sailors go!
From ship to ship to get some more

I've got it in my head tonight
I'm gonna tie myself to a submarine
I'm going down, deep out of the reach of light
Where the plants don't grow
And the fish are mean like me