Despite our sundry transportations, trains and planes,
I don't believe us to really be voyagers;
The years, months, ticks and tocks that come and go in vain,
Like Ulysses at sea, they're the real wanderers.

Doomed to drift on water, timeless, yet growing old,
Aye, never setting anchor, always setting sail
To the end of th'endless river, where lies fool's gold.
That's all the future is; just Melville's ***** whale.

When the boat is languid, we ask it to go faster,
When the boat is lively, we implore it to stop;
The ship capsizes, it had too many masters
But just go with the flow and it'll stay on top.

We couldn't captain a tiny rubber dinghy,
Time's the real pioneer, and we her passengers.