I don't know where this poem originated, but am sure it will be appreciated by old Far East hands! Ted ODE TO THE POOP. Oh hasten my friends for Socotra's arriving, and with her the chance of some buckshee imbibing. Let us laud from the quay her official elite, As they strut on the deck with their oversize feet. Observe the Commander in pristine white suit, at the end of a sixteen inch, he-man cheroot. And the elegant Third busy ogling a bird, the Cadet noting down every action and word. While the dashing Fourth Mate you will readily own, cuts a right noble figure while working the phone. ++++++++++++ Observe on the fo'c'sle in right regal state, and dazzling apparel, the honoured Chief Mate. His crew all attentive in eye straining white, are proud to obey such a man of great might. His Cadet standing by with a bright beady eye, to please him would doubtless be ready to die. The Chippy who stands at his brakes on tip-toe, the dark visaged men in the lockers below. In fact every man-jack I think you'll agree, is a credit indeed to this great Company. +++++++++++ Now haste for the gangway is already lowered, and 'tis well to be foremost among those on board. The ale that awaits us will go in a trice, before reinforcements can cool on the ice. For they truthfully say, so make no delay, that the swift win the race and the strong win the fray. But before we press on to partake of the cheer, prepared by the Purser and Chief Engineer, I prithee one moment your proud glance to stoop and regard with compassion - the man on the poop. +++++++++++++ Observe how the Second Mate lacks all serenity as he strives to make fast that unwholesome extremity. With an air of dejection so utterly final his nose but a yard from the fireman's urinal. The execrable stench from the Bhandary's bench would cause the most stalwart of heroes to blench. His crew all look doleful and sullen and grim as they peer forth from cavities dark and so dim. And a definite aura of baffled frustration hangs around every man as he stands at his station. ++++++++++++++ Oh up on the Bridge how they chortle with glee as they think of the poop with its fish-heads and ghee. Where the garlic has drifted like snow in the scupper midst the week-old remains of the Deck Serang's supper. Where the expectorations of Far Eastern nations have gathered for what would appear generations. The sun deck that wards off the pure solar ray denying access to the clean light of day, collects all the rain and through many a crack directs the whole lot down the Second Mate's back. ++++++++++++++++++ Purgatorial Poop, with selection of pains devised by a sadist's demoniacal brains. Beware as you move lest your clothing you soil, for some fiend has coated the rails with fuel oil. And the leads were designed by a tyro, whose mind, would have been better use if he'd left it behind. To hurry is fatal, you'll find if you try, as your feet from beneath you will certainly fly. As you slide on the deck impregnated with butter, to end in an undignified heap in the gutter. ++++++++++++++++++ When the pungent aromas of bad sanitation have conspired to produce a complete desperation, the industrious Topass in manner so neat, spills a quart of carbolic all over your feet. And splashes the rest with commendable zest wherever he thinks the effect will be best. But though for a moment he masks the condition of fish in advanced stage of decomposition, 'Tis but a measure of passing respite as the odours creep back just like thieves in the night. +++++++++++++++++++ The telephone stands on the sundeck above, a position for which the Cadet has no love. In solitude left to commune with his soul, amidst derelict stages and spare galley coal. But though blinded by dust and old chippings of rust He never deserts this position of trust. Each order received he repeats through clenched teeth through a hole in the deck to the Second beneath. While that worthy develops a neck like a gander popping up through the hatch like a U-boat Commander. +++++++++++++++++++ Oh, the spring 'neath the horsebox is hopelessly stuck, We've bust two chain stoppers, beheaded a duck. The Tindal with language, may Allah forgive him, sorts out the wire from the Ag-wallah's tiffin. Though we're in a tight pinch yet we wont move an inch 'till the Cassab's brown hen is removed from the winch. And though on the Bridge they most ardently yearn to give the propellers just one little turn. Yet they must curb their impatience we fear for we'll save all the livestock ere we say 'All Clear'. ++++++++++++++++++ Aye! Bowse her in forard as hard as a rock! Aye! Leave the stern sticking way over the dock! And when for a little slack forard we pray just telephone aft the curt words 'Heave Away!'. Oh the men are past caring, the Tindal's despairing, The Second has taken to bi-lingual swearing. But an inch at a time she is coming a little doubtless due to the ship being bent in the middle. And as long as the crew are not taken away to turn out the gangway, 'We'll get fast today!' +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It appears the first line may have been variable according to the ship or line involved! Version for BI ships online at: http://www.biship.com/song.htm#poop Ron Mapplebeck (UK) **** On 15/06/2013 16:16, Ted Finch wrote: > I don't know where this poem originated, but am sure it will be appreciated > by old Far East hands! > > Ted > > ODE TO THE POOP. > > Oh hasten my friends for > Socotra's arriving, > and with her the chance of some > buckshee imbibing. > Let us laud from the quay > her official elite, > As they strut on the deck with > their oversize feet. > Observe the Commander in > pristine white suit, > at the end of a sixteen > inch, he-man cheroot. > And the elegant Third > busy ogling a bird, > the Cadet noting down every > action and word. > While the dashing Fourth Mate you > will readily own, > cuts a right noble figure > while working the phone. > > ++++++++++++ > Observe on the fo'c'sle > in right regal state, > and dazzling apparel, the > honoured Chief Mate. > His crew all attentive in > eye straining white, > are proud to obey such a > man of great might. > His Cadet standing by with a > bright beady eye, > to please him would > doubtless be ready to die. > The Chippy who stands at his > brakes on tip-toe, > the dark visaged men in > the lockers below. > In fact every man-jack I > think you'll agree, > is a credit indeed to > this great Company. > > +++++++++++ > Now haste for the gangway is > already lowered, > and 'tis well to be foremost > among those on board. > The ale that awaits us > will go in a trice, > before reinforcements > can cool on the ice. > For they truthfully say, > so make no delay, > that the swift win the race and > the strong win the fray. > But before we press on to > partake of the cheer, > prepared by the Purser and > Chief Engineer, > I prithee one moment your > proud glance to stoop > and regard with compassion - the > man on the poop. > > +++++++++++++ > Observe how the Second Mate > lacks all serenity > as he strives to make fast that > unwholesome extremity. > With an air of > dejection so utterly final > his nose but a yard from > the fireman's urinal. > The execrable stench from the > Bhandary's bench > would cause the most stalwart > of heroes to blench. > His crew all look doleful > and sullen and grim > as they peer forth from > cavities dark and so dim. > And a definite aura of > baffled frustration > hangs around every man as he > stands at his station. > > ++++++++++++++ > Oh up on the Bridge how they > chortle with glee > as they think of the poop with its > fish-heads and ghee. > Where the garlic has drifted > like snow in the scupper > midst the week-old remains of the > Deck Serang's supper. > Where the expectorations of > Far Eastern nations > have gathered for what would > appear generations. > The sun deck that wards off > the pure solar ray > denying access to the > clean light of day, > collects all the rain and > through many a crack > directs the whole lot down the > Second Mate's back. > > ++++++++++++++++++ > Purgatorial Poop, with > selection of pains > devised by a sadist's > demoniacal brains. > Beware as you move lest your > clothing you soil, > for some fiend has coated the > rails with fuel oil. > And the leads were designed by a > tyro, whose mind, > would have been better use if > he'd left it behind. > To hurry is fatal, > you'll find if you try, > as your feet from beneath you > will certainly fly. > As you slide on the deck > impregnated with butter, > to end in an undignified > heap in the gutter. > > ++++++++++++++++++ > When the pungent aromas of > bad sanitation > have conspired to produce a > complete desperation, > the industrious Topass > in manner so neat, > spills a quart of > carbolic all over your feet. > And splashes the rest with > commendable zest > wherever he thinks the > effect will be best. > But though for a moment he > masks the condition > of fish in advanced stage > of decomposition, > 'Tis but a measure of > passing respite > as the odours creep back just like > thieves in the night. > > +++++++++++++++++++ > The telephone stands on > the sundeck above, > a position for which the > Cadet has no love. > In solitude left to > commune with his soul, > amidst derelict stages and > spare galley coal. > But though blinded by dust and > old chippings of rust > He never deserts this > position of trust. > Each order received he repeats > through clenched teeth > through a hole in the deck to > the Second beneath. > While that worthy develops a > neck like a gander > popping up through the hatch like a > U-boat Commander. > > +++++++++++++++++++ > Oh, the spring 'neath the horsebox > is hopelessly stuck, > We've bust two chain stoppers, > beheaded a duck. > The Tindal with language, may > Allah forgive him, > sorts out the wire from the > Ag-wallah's tiffin. > Though we're in a tight pinch yet > we wont move an inch > 'till the Cassab's brown hen is > removed from the winch. > And though on the Bridge they > most ardently yearn > to give the propellers > just one little turn. > Yet they must curb their > impatience we fear > for we'll save all the livestock > ere we say 'All Clear'. > > ++++++++++++++++++ > Aye! Bowse her in forard > as hard as a rock! > Aye! Leave the stern sticking > way over the dock! > And when for a little > slack forard we pray > just telephone aft the curt > words 'Heave Away!'. > Oh the men are past caring, the > Tindal's despairing, > The Second has taken to > bi-lingual swearing. > But an inch at a time > she is coming a little > doubtless due to the ship being > bent in the middle. > And as long as the crew > are not taken away > to turn out the gangway, > 'We'll get fast today!' > > +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ > > > > ------------------------------- > To unsubscribe from the list, please send an email to [email protected] with the word 'unsubscribe' without the quotes in the subject and the body of the message >