The Tin Can Sailor

 There's a roll and pitch and a heave and pitch

 To the nautical gait they take,

 For they're used to the cant of the quarterdeck's slant

 As the white toothed combers break

 On the plates that hum like a beaten drum

 To the thrill of the turbines might,

 As the knife bow leaps through the foamy deep

 With the speed of a shell in flight.

 Oh, their scorn is deep for the crews who keep

 To the battleship's steady floor,

 For they love the lurch of their own frail perch

 At thirty-five knots or more.

 They don't get much of the drill and such

 That the battleship sailors do,

 For they sail the seas in dungarees

 A grey destroyer's crew.

 They need not climb, at their sleeping time,

 To a hammock that sways and bumps.

 For they leap, ker-plunk to a cozy bunk

 That quivers and bucks and jumps.

 They hear the sound of the seas that pound

 On the half inch plates of steel

 And they close their eyes to the lullabies

 Of the creaking sides and keel.

 They're a lusty crowd that's vastly proud

 Of the slim grey craft they drive.

 Of the roaring flues and the humming screws

 Which make Her a thing alive.

 They love the lunge of Her surging plunge

 And the murk of Her smokescreen too

 As they sail the seas in their dungarees,

A grey destroyer's crew.