Only the Devil
Would call it "Sea Level"
For we who know better
Have found it much wetter
And very much rougher
Than people who suffer
The misguided notion
That life on the ocean
Is peaches and cream----
Or so it would seem.

For they have the impression
The sea is a session
Of endless good times
In tropical climes.
They scoff at our tales
Of Beauforts "whole gales",
The ceaseless gyration,
The refrigeration,
The language phonetic
And victuals emetic,
The winds orchestration,
The sprays flagelation,
The roll and the wallow
That endlessly follow----
The Devil symphoic,
Insanity chronic-----
This thing that we know
As "a bit of a blow".

No---given selection----
For me is the section
That sends the storm warning
Then homeward for tea,
Theis duties completed
At office desk seated----
With never a thought for
The sailor at sea.
The windsquall can blow then'
The snowstorm can snow then,
They are snug by the fireplace,
A whisky in reach.
What would we not give then
To "jump" and to live then---
Away from all water
A job on "the beach".