When my man goes to sea,
he steps so high and free.
I think I know as I watch him go
that he has no need for me, for me.

And when my [bad word] home
and waits a while to roam,
I think I see when he smiles at me
that he’s dreaming of the foam, the foam.

I’m not a pious Christian
and I do not go to mass,
but I pray to Father Neptune
to let him safely pass.

I sing to the god with the three-pronged rod
and the whiskers wild and free
that I’ve got a man with a beard and a tan
and a passion for the sea.

He rides through the storm and the cold and the warm
and he loves to risk his neck,
and I like to know when he goes below
that it’s just below the deck.

Oh, Neptune; Father Neptune!
I tell you fair and [bad word] 
that if you should lose my sailor
I’ll sing no more to you.

When he’s home from sea he is half with me
and he’s gone when I close the door,
and it’s still his creed that he has no need
of a wife except on shore.

I know it’s the boat that keeps him afloat,
but I like to think it’s me.
And if it were not for this
I would sink to the depths of the sea.