Fed to the gills, up to my back teeth,
even my songs don’t hold me in thrall.
I want to dive like a sub to the bottom
where no-one can get my bearings at all.

A friend used to pour me out whiskey and venture
everything sore would someday just go;
that friend hooked me up with a girl he’d heard mentioned:
said the girl might help, and drink save my soul.

But the girl didn’t help, and salvation is dry:
a hung-over head and maybe a dose.
Go down like a submarine, clear to the bottom,
and keep my whereabouts quiet and close.

Fed up to the gills, fed to the tonsils,
too sick and tired to sing or to play:
I want to lie like a sub on the bottom,
and send out no call-sign to give me away.

Down and down, hide me away:
peace and quiet, maybe days and days.