Who would say a word or two, apropos of death?
What thoughts travel through the mind that takes its final breath?
Darkness, cold and flecks of spray obscuring what he wrote,
Captain D. Kolesnikoff is scrawling us a note.

"There aren't many left of us on the ocean bed,
Twenty-two are here with me, and all the rest are dead.
We have no hope of leaving here, but if you love me, wait,
And you will read these words of mine and learn about my fate."

The skies above are overcast, the empty seas are bland,
The Kursk is resting on the ground, but oh-so-far from land.
The water's flowing slowly in; the iron walls are cold,
Two dozen of the soon-to-die are huddled in the hold,

They'll have a committee formed that will do naught but lie,
How should a committee know what it's like to die?
Far below the restless waves, trapped inside a boat,
Captain D. Kolesnikoff is writing us a note.