The Snipes Lament
Now each of us from time to time has gazed upon the sea,
and watched the warships pulling out to keep this country free.
And most of us have read a book or heard a lusty tale,
about these men who sail these ships through lightnin', wind and hail.
But there's a place within each ship, that legend fails to teach.
It's down below the waterline, it takes a living toll.
A hot metal living hell, that sailors call "the hole".
It houses engines run by steam, that make the shafts go round.
A place of fire and noise and heat, that beats your spirits down.
Where boilers like hellish heart, with blood of angry steam,
are of moulded gods without remorse, are nightmares in a dream.
You have no time for man or God, no tolerance or fear.
Your aspects pay no living thing, the tribute of a tear.
For there's not much that man can do, that these men haven't done,
beneath the deck deep in the hole, to make the engines run.
And every hour of every day, they keep the watch in hell.
For if the fires ever fail, their ship's a useless shell.
When ships converge to have a war upon the angry sea,
the men below just grimly smile, at what their fate might be.
They're locked in below like men foredoomed, who hear no battle cry.
It's well assumed that if their hit, the men below will die.
For every day's a war down there, when the gauges all read red.
Twelve hundred pounds of heated steam, can kill you mighty dead.
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 till warships sail no more,
amid the boilers mighty heat, and the turbines hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out to meet a warlike foe,
remember faintly if you can, the men who sail below.
Author Unknown
Now each of us from time to time has gazed upon the sea,
and watched the warships pulling out to keep this country free.
And most of us have read a book or heard a lusty tale,
about these men who sail these ships through lightnin', wind and hail.
But there's a place within each ship, that legend fails to teach.
It's down below the waterline, it takes a living toll.
A hot metal living hell, that sailors call "the hole".
It houses engines run by steam, that make the shafts go round.
A place of fire and noise and heat, that beats your spirits down.
Where boilers like hellish heart, with blood of angry steam,
are of moulded gods without remorse, are nightmares in a dream.
You have no time for man or God, no tolerance or fear.
Your aspects pay no living thing, the tribute of a tear.
For there's not much that man can do, that these men haven't done,
beneath the deck deep in the hole, to make the engines run.
And every hour of every day, they keep the watch in hell.
For if the fires ever fail, their ship's a useless shell.
When ships converge to have a war upon the angry sea,
the men below just grimly smile, at what their fate might be.
They're locked in below like men foredoomed, who hear no battle cry.
It's well assumed that if their hit, the men below will die.
For every day's a war down there, when the gauges all read red.
Twelve hundred pounds of heated steam, can kill you mighty dead.
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 till warships sail no more,
amid the boilers mighty heat, and the turbines hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out to meet a warlike foe,
remember faintly if you can, the men who sail below.
Author Unknown