I takes me grog and I writes me log
      As a simple sailor man.
   I've tole the troth up from me youth,
      An' I've done as best I can.
   I writes of things the wide sea brings
      Within me range of view,
An' I've frequent made allusion to the ship they calls the Fusion,
      W'ich is, mebbe, known to you.


   When last I wrote a 'asty note
      Concernin' things marine,
   I told you 'ow that darned old scow
      'Ad shipped the waters green;
   I passed a word, you might 'ave 'eard,
      Regardin' Fust Mate Joe.
Now, choke me with a kipper, if 'e ain't became the skipper!
      For 'er capting 'ad to go.


   That skipper 'e, 'twas plain to see,
      Was fair sick of 'is job.
   We seen 'im glide right overside
      An' on the lee-shore lob.
   'E 'eaves a sigh an' pipes 'is eye,
      An' sadly waves 'is 'and;
(An' our eyes we wasn't rooning fer to notice plain maroonin');
      Then Joe 'e takes commmand.


   Now Joe, says 'e: "If mutinee
      Shows up amongst this crew,
   I'm a rare ole tar with a capstan bar,
      An' I'll haze ye black an' blue!
   Fer yer late ex-cap. was a softish chap,
      But yeh'll find me 'ard an' quick!"
Then 'e gaily waves 'is flipper to the late lamented skipper,
      An' 'e ses, "'Eave up the pick!"


   Then some they swore - same as before -
      They'd sail to Port Freetrade.
   An' some ses, "Nay, Protection Bay
      Is where our course is laid."
   But Joe comes out with a deep-sea shout
      That made 'em jump, you bet.
Ses 'e: "This craft is sailin' straight for Hoffi, without failin'!
      An' it's there I mean to get!"


   Away she sails, with th ehustling gales
      A-howling through 'er shrouds.
   An' Joe sighs deep as 'e takes a peep
      At the dark an' threat'nin' clouds.
   Ses 'e: "Gee whiz!  I might er riz
      To this 'ere job before,
When the craft was somewot newer, an' the bloomin' reefs was fewer,
      An' I 'ad some friends ashore."


   When I seen 'er go, ses I, "Wot Ho!
      If this ain't deep-sea sport!"
   Fer the course she took weren't by the book
      No navigator tought.
   She dips an' yaws, an' rolls an' paws,
      Like a cab-'orse in the wet.
Ses I: "Avast, me 'earty!  You're a rare ole sailor party;
      But you'll not make port, I'll bet."


   She's out there yet on th eocean wet,
      An' the crew ain't none too glad.
   No watch below for Skipper Joe;
      An' 'e's gettin' rampin' mad.
   Fer Election Rock stands chock-a-block
      In front of Hoffis Port;
An' when she bumps agin' it, as'll 'appen any minnit.
      Well, you best watch out for sport.


   But it's 'ip, 'ip, 'ip! for the Fusion ship,
      An' I ses it once agen.
   She's a mad old barque, an' a rare ole lark
      For us simple sailor men.
   An' it's Yo! ho! ho! fer 'er capting, Jow.
      Oo's the maddest skip I've seen.
W'ich is all I'll be inditin' - bein' rather sick o' writin' -
      In regard to things marine. 

"C.J. Dennis"
The Bulletin, 29 October 1913, p47