FROM THE BRIDGE
There is no stone on a ship’s big tomb
Just names marked down in the Admiral’s room
Their only cross on a chart prostrate,
A pencilled fix to point their fate.
The heavy weather sails, boys,
That swept her round the Horn,
Are bleached with wind and rain, boys,
And some of them are torn,
Tomorrow we’ll unbend them,
And send them all below,
And up aloft my hearties,
Her tropic draperies go!
I know it isn’t poetry – it isn’t even prose
I’m really very sorry if it travels up your nose
Shall we call it doggerel?
What do you suppose?