No, it's not

Its so dirty, so murky, so dark yet quirky
we go to the island alone, we ship to the island alone

the water is quieter, the wind is blue
where went the moon, no star has a clue

look at the murky mansion, that i mentioned in the day
made of burnt blemished bricks of burnt blemished clay.

i row and you sit and smile, then i sit and you smile and row
look the lovely albatross, the mighty sea-crow
when i sit quiet and sob, i cry a saddy song
the whole night cries with me, the whole night long

here comes the island bank, the pitch dark land
our nostrils fill themselves with scent of grey sand

scent of the sand is the scent of the blood,
neither your nor mine,
it's the natures black blood,
count's forlorn wine.