Still, even with the cream suppressed a volume could be filled
With the epigrams of killing and the jokes of being killed,
With a preface by the officer we rescued from the wave,
When a cloud of steam and lyddite smoke lay o'er the "Bluecher's" grave,
Who, as the bowmen fished him out and passed him aft to dry,
Read the name upon their ribbons with a twinkle in his eye,
And said: "A Westo ship, I think—I guess my luck is in,
I'm sick of German substitutes—now for some Plymouth gin."
And a picture of the sailor in a certain submarine,
Which was diving through the waters where the sweepers hadn't been,