Weary Spice Sands

[bnewman]

Spice harvesting in Dune is a lot like whaling — you ship out to the most hostile environment there is, where there is no fresh water, and colossal beasts may strike from below at any moment, in order to obtain one of the most valuable substances there is, which is the biological product of these same beasts.  So a Dune filk of a whaling song seemed apropos.

lyrics by Benjamin Newman

ttto: "Wings of a Gull" (or "The Weary Whaling Ground"), trad. Canadian

 

/: Em D C Em / D - C -(D) :/

 

Oh if I had the wits of the desert rat,

I would come in from the sun,

I would leave these sweltering Arrakeen sands,

For the spice here we've found none.

 

/ Em D Em C / Em D B7 - / " / " /

 

Oh the sun is hot and the winds do blow,

And there's little comfort here,

And I'd sooner be bound for Caladan,

Where there's water free and clear.

 

Oh, a man must be mad or he's wanting money bad,

To adventure after spice,

For the sun does burn, and the mighty worm

May claim his deadly price.

 

Oh the work seems grand to the young green hand,

And his heart is high when he goes,

But in a very short burst he would sooner hear a curse

Than a cry of "There she blows!"

 

The sandmaster points to a dusty dune

And the carry-all slowly lands.

And the harvester-factory groans to work,

For there's spice in these here sands!

 

The spotters rise on 'thopter wings,

And for wormsign keep aware,

For it's they who'll call for the carry-all,

That'll get us out of there.

 

All hands to the 'thopters, now, for God's sake!

Move briskly if you can!

And you stumble outside as the ground begins to shake,

And run like hell 'cross the sand!

 

For deep below, the great worm goes,

And soon there's no solid ground,

Then the 'thopters rise, and you're barely inside,

When the harvester goes down.

 

These trials we bear for many a year,

'Til the Spacing Guild sends us home,

And it sure would be nice to have earned a share of spice,

Whose virtues we well know.

 

But we go to the palace to settle our accounts,

And there we have cause for regret:

After all the years that we've slaved away,

Our transport's not paid yet!