In fourteen hundred and ninety two,
A sailor from New Delhi
Was walking down the streets of Spain,
Selling hot tamales
He said the world was roundo
He said it could be foundo
That hypothetical calculatin' son of a gun Colombo
He walked right up to the Queen of Spain
And asked for ships and cargo
He said I'll be a son of a gun if I don't bring back Chicago
The ships cook, the ships cook
Yes he was a cookin'
He slipped a rat into the pot
When no one else was lookin'
The second mate, the second mate
Yes he was a singin'
He hit the second highest note
And all our ears were ringin'
The first mate, the first mate,
Yes he was a biggun
He fought and killed an octopus
And used its arms for riggin'
The captain, the captain,
Yes he was a sailin'
He guided us around the world
And home without a failin'
