Rolling a fag, he brags to a deck-boy
In the Mess about his long years at sea
Aboard trawler, tug or old tramp-steamer,
And shipping out with Shell, Elder Dempster,
Everard, Blue Flu or PSNC,
And sleeping with whores, and getting the clap,
And boozing for days, and brawling in bars,
But tonight he’ll stand on lookout alone,
Hearing the soft, clean hiss of the ocean,
And gaze in silent wonder at the stars.