It scoffs at dangers, tho they lurk around,
And shuts its eye to perils that abound.
There's scant spare space, but still its ribs enfold
A priceless cargo in its shallow hold.
Past hostile ships into a neutral haven,
It comes up smiling with all flags a wavin'.
But now these "Cargo Craft" throw off disguise
And cut our neutral throats: it's no surprise
That dastards, who as "scraps of paper" rate
Their solemn Treaties, would thus lie in wait