Sent in by William Zimmerman

        Engineer's Lament

What may you ask is life at sea?  
Speak to a seaman and not to me.
A dial, a gauge and nothing more,
except the engines roar.

No sunset turning the ocean red.  
Just bed to watch and watch to bed.
No deep and rolling ocean smell.  
Just a foul and dirty oily smell.

No watching the low set ocean aboil.
Just temperature, pressure, vacuum and
oil,
No thought how neat and trim your craft.
Just count your turns and check your shaft.

No fresh air to salt your blood.  
Just a cigarette and a cup of mud.
If you must go to sea, lend me your ear......
Don't let them make you an ENGINEER!!

                   
                    THE SNIPES LAMENT


NOW EACH OF US FROM TIME TO TIME,
HAS GAZED UPON THE SEA;
AND WATCHED THE WARSHIPS PULLING OUT,
TO KEEP THEIR COUNTRY FREE.

AND MOST OF US HAVE READ A BOOK;  
OR HEARD A LUSTY TALE.  
ABOUT THE MEN WHO SAIL THESE SHIPS;
THROUGH LIGHTING, WIND AND HAIL.

BUT THERE'S A PLACE WITHIN EACH SHIP,
THAT LEGEND FAILS TO TELL.  
IT'S DOWN BELOW THE WATERLINE,IT TAKES A LIVING TOLL.
A HEATED METAL LIVING HELL,THAT SAILORS CALL "THE HOLE."

IT HOUSES ENGINES RUN BY STEAM,
THAT MAKES THE SHAFTS GO ROUND.
A PLACE OF FIRE AND NOISE AND HEAT,
THAT BEATS YOUR SPIRITS DOWN.

WHERE BOILERS ARE THE HELLISH HEART,
WITH BLOOD OF ANGRY STEAM; 
THESE MOLDED GODS WITHOUT REMORSE,
LIKE NIGHTMARES IN A DREAM.

THE ROARING FIRES POSE A THREAT
LIKE LIVING LIFE IN DOUBT,
FOR AT ANY MINUTE WITHOUT SCORN,
COULD ESCAPE AND CRUSH YOU OUT.

WHERE TURBINES SCREAM LIKE TORTURED SOULS,
ALONE AND LOST IN HELL.  
WITH ORDERS FROM SOMEWHERE ABOVE,
THEY ANSWER EVERY BELL.

THE MEN WHO KEEP THE FIRES LIT,
AND MAKE THE ENGINES RUN,
ARE STRANGERS TO THE WORLD OF LIGHT,
AND RARELY SEE THE SUN.

THEY HAVE NO TIME FOR MAN OR GOD,
NO TOLERANCE FOR FEAR.
THEIR ASPECT PAYS NO LIVING THING
THE TRIBUTE OF A TEAR.

THERE'S LITTLE THAT MEN CAN DO,
THAT THESE MEN HAVE NOT DONE.  
BENEATH THE DECKS, DEEP IN THE HOLE,
TO MAKE THE ENGINES RUN.

AND EVERY HOUR OF EVERY DAY,
THEY KEEP THEIR WATCH IN HELL.  
FOR IF THE FIRES EVER FAIL,
THEIR SHIP'S A USELESS SHELL.

WHEN SHIPS CONVERGE TO HAVE A WAR
UPON AN ANGRY SEA.  
THE MEN BELOW JUST GRIMLY SMILE
AT WHAT THEIR FATE MIGHT BE.

THEY'RE LOCKED BELOW, LIKE MEN 'FORE DOOMED,
WHO HEAR NO BATTLE CRY.  
IT'S WELL ASSUMED THAT IF THEY'RE HIT,
THE MEN BELOW WILL DIE.

FOR EVERY DAY'S A WAR DOWN THERE,
WHEN GAUGES ALL READ RED.
TWELVE HUNDRED POUNDS OF HEATED STEAM,
CAN KILL YOU MIGHTY DEAD.

SO IF YOU EVER WRITE THEIR SONS,
OR TRY TO TELL THEIR TALE.
THE VERY WORDS SHOULD MAKE YOU HEAR
A FIRED FURNACE WAIL.

THESE "MEN OF STEEL"
THE PUBLIC NEVER GETS TO KNOW.
SO LITTLE'S HEARD ABOUT THE PLACE, 
THAT SAILORS CALL "THE HOLE".

  
BUT I CAN SING ABOUT THIS PLACE,
AND TRY TO MAKE YOU SEE;  
THE HARDENED LIFE OF MEN DOWN THERE,
'CAUSE ONE OF THEM IS ME.

I'VE SEEN THESE SWEAT SOAKED HEROES FIGHT,
IN SUPERHEATED AIR.
TO KEEP THEIR SHIP ALIVE AND RIGHT,
THOUGH NO ONE KNOWS THEY'RE THERE.

AND THUS THEY'LL FIGHT FOR AGES ON,
'TIL STEAMSHIPS SAIL NO MORE.  
AMID THE BOILER'S MIGHTY HEAT
AND TURBINE'S HELLISH ROAR.

SO WHEN YOU SEE A SHIP PULL OUT 
TO MEET A WARSHIP FOE.
REMEMBER FAINTLY, IF YOU CAN,
"THE MEN WHO SAIL BELOW".