"A Submarine"
unknown author
(A World War I poem found by a submariner in
1966 at the Submarine Base, Groton, CT)
Born in the ships of the devel,
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 varmits,
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 an fuel oil,
Electricians in H2SO4,
Gunnersmates with 600W,
And torpedo slush galore.
When we come into the Navy Yard,
We ar elooked upon with disgrace;
And they7 make out some new regulations,
To fit our paticular case.
Now all you Battleship sailors,
When you are feeling disgruntled and mean;
Just pack your bag and hammock,
And go to "A Submarine".