That’s What It’s
Like In The Navy
(Cyril Tawney 1930 -2005)
That’s what it’s like in the Navy.
I wish I’d never joined
For a sailor mother dear,
I’ve seen some places in my time
But nothing like this here,
The girls won’t let us court ‘em
And the canteen’s out of beer,
And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.
They covered us with honours
Praises far from feint,
They showered us with medals
‘Gainst which we’ve no complaint,
But we’d rather that our Jimmy
Hadn’t covered us with paint,
And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.
And when we started rolling
We rolled an awful lot,
Some people lost their balance
Or their dinner on the spot,
But the whole of bloody two mess
Went and lost their sodden tot,
And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.
There were tough guys in the Navy
When Francis banged his drum
And chaps like Hawkin’s chewed up glass
Instead of chewing gum,
But even they weren’t tough enough
To drink Maltese water in their rum,
And that’s what it’s like in the Navy.
That’s what it’s like in the Navy ……
Weekly Running
Call the hands away from
their weekend dreams,
Our boilers gauge a full head
of steam,
Pack a steaming kit, plant a
fare-well kiss,
And say good-bye to the
missus,
For the refit’s done and not
much fun,
Now they’ve got us weekly
running,
A running, running, running,
We’re J.B. weekly running.
Send duty watch aft to single
up lines,
Our shore power’s dead yet
one more time,
Strike the jackstay staff,
fold the Ensign neat,
And stow it away for the week
For a ship at sea is where it
should be,
So they’ve sent us out this
morning,
A morning, morning, morning,
We sail each Monday morning.
Give three short blasts on
the ship’s siren,
Close up our special sea
duty-men,
Slip the gang-way plank,
clear the harbor heads
And find again the old sea
legs,
For the props can turn at
half astern
Now they’ve signaled we are
sailing,
A sailing, sailing, sailing,
To J.B. we are sailing.
Follow up reports from the
D.SOT crews,
Our guns run out on re-coil
blue,
Don your anti-flash, call the
fall of shot,
And rapid load the gun-bay
hoist,
For the rifling’s cold and
our ammo’s old,
Yet they’ve cleared us for a
firing,
A firing, firing, firing,
On the Beecroft range we’re
firing.
Place the upper decks out of
bounds,
Our scuppers run the green
seas down,
Make the lashings tight, take
an extra bight,
And stow gear loose sculling
about,
For the weathers rough and
the seas are up,
Now we’re off J. B. and
rolling,
A rolling, rolling, rolling,
We’re sick of bloody rolling.
Get shipside grey from the
bosun store,
Our anchor’s dropped to the
ocean floor,
Watch the greenies dib, the
dustmen dab,
And stewards polish with a
cleaning rag,
For rust stains weep in a
wasted week,
Now we paint and we are
moaning,
A moaning, moaning, moaning,
We’re in J.B. and moaning.
Chuck an extra homeward
bounder on,
Our Navvi will think his
charts are wrong,
Gallop up the coast, steer a
steady line,
And be on the buoy at
knock-off time,
For in state three, condition
Yankee,
They would not make us
standby,
A standby, standby, standby,
Bloody hell, we’re duty ship and standby!
J.O. White
Hey Joe, please contact me at EditorWhiteEnsign@NavalAssoc.org.au
ReplyDeleteI want to talk to you about poetry for the magazine. Send me your phone number and I'll give you a call.
Allen