by RMC Peter F. Warncke

On civvie street they's floggin'a quaint notion
That sez ROLAIDS spell relief,
But here on deck, midst the heavin' ocean
the first cry heard is Ask the Chief.
A cry that sets events in rapid motion
Ere the Captain brings on grief,
O'that we've had our quotient.
An impatient voice - Where's that Chief.

The BM o'the watch turns to run,
As by lightnin' he's been struck,
Anon, reports the OOD - The Chief can't come?
He's down below, lookin' for his coffee mug

A hush descends, still as the settin' othe sun,
The Old Man, red faced, maybe his bib has come unstuck,
Raps out, the words now quick and loud, begun -
I said, Mister get him up!

The rascal's hauled from nether quarters
To face the CO, who eyes him, hot but brief -
I won't countenance slow starters
On this ship. Are you with me, Chief

A sharp salute, defiant grin, this deef martyr,
O'him we've seen the last, is my belief,
Pipes up out hero, like a lamb afore the slaughter -
Without me morin' mud I'm as useless as this tub,
squattin' high and dry, run up some loonely reef.

Last preventive maintenance on this page December 30, 2005.