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."




Originally published in 1918 in a New London Subbase Newspaper


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