Tubemonkey

Radiations had shorted his brilliant pilot's brain, left him an aimless, childish hulk. Yet Rhiannon had his moments—when he needed them.
Echoed by the sloping, sun-drenched concrete walls, booming above the high, bony clatter of monorail cranes, shaming the entire fuming, metallic hubbub of Boat Bed 52, the sound might have been the cavernous indignation of some giant beast being dragged zoo-ward from a Bio-Institute boat. It was, however, a voice, singing:
Oh-h-h, the boats come in
An' the boats go out
An' we clean 'em an' screen 'em an' preen 'em.
We fix their fins
An' we polish their snouts
With a five second breather between 'em.
I-i-if she comes in smash
From a steerocket lash
Do we wait 'til they've counted the dead?
Oh never, tut tut—