|Poetry and Prose|
The Men Who Sail Below
Born in the shops of the devil,
Designed in the brains of a fiend;
Filled with acid and crude oil,
And christened "A Submarine."
The poets send their ditties,
Of Battleships spick and clean;
But never a word in their columns,
Do you see a submarine?
I'll try and depict our story,
In a very laconic way;
Please have patience to listen,
Until I have finished my say.
We eat where'er we can find it,
And sleep hanging up on the hooks;
Conditions under which we're existing,
Are never published in books.
Life on these boats is obnoxious,
And that is using mild terms;
We are never bothered by sickness,
There isn't any room for germs.
We are never troubled with varmints,
There are things even a cockroach can't stand.
And any self-respecting rodent,
Quick as possible beats it for land.
And that little one dollar per dive,
We receive to submerge out of sight;
Is often earned more than double,
By charging batteries at night.
And that extra compensation,
We receive on boats like these;
We never really get it all,
It's spent on soap and dungarees.
Machinists get soaked in fuel oil,
Electricians in H2SO4;
Gunnersmates with 600W,
And torpedo slush galore.
When we come into the Navy Yard,
We are looked upon with disgrace;
And they make out some new regulations,
To fit our particular case.
Now all you Battleship sailors,
When you are feeling disgruntled and mean;
Just pack your bag and hammock,
And go to "A Submarine."