OLD HEN-PECK.
Captain Edwin Peck, E.N.,
Had the habits of a hen.
Edwin's nose was like a bone,
And his teeth were not his own;
Neither, I regret to tell,
Did they fit him very well.
It was not his fault, no doubt,
That they tried to tumble out,
And in fact he seldom dropped them,
For he almost always copped them
Just as they became unstuck
By ejaculating, "Cluck."
Yoked to this elusive plate,
Did our Edwin curse his fate?
No, he was content to live,
For he was inquisitive.
If he saw a speck of grit
He must needs examine it,
Not as any other might,
Standing at his proper height,
But with body slightly slanted
And his head obliquely canted,
While with small unblinking eye
He surveyed it wickedly.
One fine Sunday Captain Peek
Stalked along the lower deck,
Pausing now and then to stare,
Poking here and scratching there,
Like a pullet in her prime
Clucking softly all the time.
Presently the Captain spied
One small scuttle open wide.
"Cluck!" he said, and likewise. "Tut!
"Every scuttle should be shut;"
And with a malignant snort
Poked his head out through the port.
That was easy, but, alack!
When he tried to get it back
There was heard an angry cluck—
Captain Edwin Peck was stuck!
Strange at first as it appears,
He had overlooked his ears;
But it's not so queer, perhaps,
When you ask, "Have hens got flaps?"
Silence! You'd have heard a pin
Fall upon the deck within,
Till the Bloke was heard to shout,
"Stick it, Sir! We'll get you out!"
Everybody had a go—
Chief, Commander, P.M.O.,
Padre, Carpenter and Stoker,
Using engine-grease and poker,
Hawser, marlin-spike and soap,
Till at length they gave up hope,
For, in spite of all they did,
Edwin fitted like a lid.
Suddenly upon the scene
Came a German submarine.
Then a flash, a roar, a groan;
"We are sinking like a stone!"
Cried the Bloke with angry frown;
"Can we leave poor Peck to drown?
Really, this is too absurd;"
Then a miracle occurred.
As the cold green waters roll
Round poor Edwin in his hole,
Are the watchers wrong in thinking
That the Captain's neck is shrinking?
As she took her final list on,
Sighing, "üdor mén äriston!"
Long-enduring Captain Peck
Gracefully withdrew his neck,
Poked it out again and spoke
To the sorrow-stricken Bloke:
"Nothing more that we can do?
No? Then sound the 'Sove kee poo!'"
Need I tell how Captain Peck
Was the last to leave the wreck,
How the good ship perished, or
How he brought them safe to shore,
Landing, after all his men,
Clucking softly like a hen?
Up-to date quotation for foot-sore Londoners: "Et Tube, brute!"