In shouting letters on the scroll of fame,
Stood by you with a firmness almost sinful,
Fed you with honors till you had a skinful,
Plied you with praise till drunk as any lord—
And this, George Dewey, this is my reward!
So drunken with success you seem to be
That you have visions of succeeding—Me!
AMBITIOUS MARINER:
Why, blast my tarry toplights! what’s this row?
And which of you is speaking, anyhow?