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 a word in their columns,

Do you see of a submarine.

I'll try and depict our story,

In a very laconic way;

Please have patience to listen,

Until I have finished my say.

We eat where’re we can find it,

And sleep hanging up on the hooks;

Conditions under which we're existing,

Are never published in books.

Life on 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.

And that extra compensation,

We receive on boats like these;

We never really get at all,

It's spent on soap and dungarees.

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 feelin’' disgruntled and mean;

Just pack your bag and hammock,

And go to "A Submarine"