The man who built The Titanic never talks about oceans
And has a morbid fear of the cold
His recurring dream is panoramic
Eskimo sailors steer a ship of ice through seas of scrap metal
Every sound echoes dull and heavy through fog
And the captain is perpetually drunk
The dreamer peers over the side of the ship
The seabed is a mile below
And he can make out fronds of metal weed curling up towards him
The people who are going to jump when the panic starts
Will simply drop like stones
There's no water to catch them here
As the band stops playing
He can feel the great hull of ice start to shudder
And hears the drawn out groan as it cracks apart
Asleep, he keels over in bed, grinding his teeth hard
A sound that fills his head like ice shearing on metal
The man who built The Titanic lives near the Equator
And seldom takes a bath
His house smells of him, except the kitchen
Here, without a fridge, food rots quickly in the heat
And the stench attracts gulls
They wheel and screech in the air above his house
And, when he throws out the garbage
They dive onto the deck, and fight like people in a panic
And that's the man who built The Titanic
The man who never talks about oceans
The man who has a morbid fear of the cold