Tin Can Sailors
Tin Can Sailors
There's a roll and a pitch, a heave and a pitch
To the nautical gait they take,
For they're used to the cant of the quarterdeck's slant
As the white toothed combers break
On the plates that hum like a beaten drum
To the thrill of the turbins might,
As the knife bow leaps through the foamy deep
With the speed of a shell in flight.
Oh, their scorn is deep for the crews who keep
To the battleship's steady floor
For they love the lurch of their own frail perch
At thirty five knots or more.
They don't get much of the drill and such
That the battleship sailors do
For they sail the seas in dungarees
A grey destroyer's crew.
They need not climb at their sleeping time
To a hammock that sways and bumps
For they leap kerplunk into a cozy bunk
That quivers and bucks and jumps.
They hear the sound of the seas that pound
On the half inch plates of steel
And they close their eyes to the lullabies
Of the creaking sides and keel.
They're a lusty crowd that's vastly proud
Of the slim grey craft they drive
Of the roaring flues and the humming screws
Which make her a thing alive.
They love the lunge of her surging plunge
And the murk of her smokescreen too.
As they sail the seas in their dungarees
A grey destroyer's crew.
