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.