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.

SAILS

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!

Capt. H.H.Neligan

My POETRY

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?