"A Submarine"

(A World War I poem found by a submariner in 1966 at the Submarine Base, Groton, CT/Author unknown.)

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; 
Gunners mates 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."