The racing tracks were seen,

And Poulson watching them get there, cried—Hold the crockery—Starboard side!

For the kick of a magazine!

The escort ran and the cruisers ran

At the thought of an English snare;

Scattered and spread to left and right, to the friendly arms of the German Bight,

And left the ocean bare.

Then the coffee was spilt, the E-boat rolled

To a deuce of a shaking bang;

To the sound of the hammer of Aser-Thor, victory-song of Naval War,