Sailors' Custom (1993)

The cold wind lashes my brittle heart,
My friend, I pray, don’t drift apart;
But it’s time for the rites of the high seas
When by lots we shall decide whom to cease;
You, me or the others, whose blood shall soak,
Whose flesh shall fill; let mind go senses broke.
If it’s me, feed on me
without a qualm,
If it’s you, shut your eyes
for they might break this lunatic calm.

Somewhere, there used to be a sailors’ custom when they are stranded on the high seas - of taking lots to decide who to eat.