A SUBMARINE
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 in their ditties,
Of battleships spick and clean;
But never in their columns,
Do you see of a submarine.
So I'll try to depict our story,
In a very laconic way,
So 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 in 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
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."
--Anonymous
Originally published in 1918 in a New London Subbase Newspaper