Chante, chante,
sing a little song of clans.
We bear Seattle's social life,
debauches and wassail,
Airborne to Hardee's lonely shore,
last place to send our mail.
The pounding seas of Charlotte Strait,
Campana braves with glee.
Up Fitzhugh Sound,
we're Kwak Shaw bound,
to Hawkeye's friendly lee.
We're clams, clam s, clams,
Cruis ing without madams.
We start out for sal mon,
But wind up just clammin'.
We're clams, clams,
clams.
The little necks'll make it
If you steam them up .
The butter clams are dandy
in a chowder cup
If broth is what you want,
well, any clam will do
The cockles and the mussels
and the geoduck too
The only time to dig them's
when the tide is low
But problem number one
is no one wants to go
And problem number two is
simply just too big
Problem number three is
no one wants to dig
That climbing hand is really grime
But how you gonna get
him to pass that sand?
We burrow for the bivalve
down in Plumper Bay
And scratch and claw and sift
the silt out Quatnaway
At Nimbkish we don't seek fish
but the juicy clam
If all we get is empty shells,
who gives a damn?
With all our gear, a little beer,
we hit Clem too
And talk to all the clammy
people in Namu
And then to Bellacoola if you
haven't heard
It's Indian,
but today goes it's a dirty word
Don't understand if blasting's banned
Now how you gonna get them
to pass that sand
We're Clams, Clams, Clams,
Cruising without madams.
Max bells with his horses,
While we eat ten courses
Of Clams, Clams, Clams.
Thank you, the Lorelei from Goose Bay.
you