In shares of rubber or of oil.
The liner’s skipper when he steers,
The foghorn booming in his ears,
Through thousand dangers all unseen,
Sighs for the peaceful village green;
Yet fog nor ice nor foundered ships
Can stop him making record trips.
Some spurn not, when their throats are dry,
Long drinks of Irish or Old Rye,
Nor scorn to blow through moistened lips