"Iceberg Captain, iceberg!"

"Take it on the nose."

He says, and taps his nose

Because he knows

Something we don't know.

"And slow down a bit,

So we don't get hit

Too hard. Ten noughts ought to do it,

And if we're dead by tomorrow you can spit

On my grave." 'Cause he's got true grit.

But that never happened to the unsinkable

Ship, for the boat's kismet became unthinkable.

And 1517 is a number that's not special, not anything.

It became memorable because of that thing, the terrible thing.

When that number counted how many people were left dead.

Out of 2223 people, 706 survived but how do you think they coped with their dread

Of nightmares clawing at them from the deep

Of the sea where1517 souls are waiting to leap

At you from the water, gasping for life, for a chance to get on one of those life boats

Out of the coldness, beating them, beating you to shame that you were first class and wore fancy coats.

And then you wake, and it's all a dream

But you see a cold hand reaching for you and you scream.

There's no one there, but there's a whisper hanging around the room.

Of a bell, crunching metal and gushing water pouring everywhere and it keeps coming and you're trapped and you can't breathe and you try to call for help but it just comes out as a bloated gargle.

And they find you in the morning, drowned it the bathtub. Clutching your ticket.

To Titanic.