Bosun

Sixteen stone Of beef and bone, Sort o' beggar to hold his own With a foc's'le full of fighting drunks And haul and hustle 'em out of their bunks. Made of spunyarn and Stockholm tar, The same as all good bosuns are: Can't read, can't write, But he can holler and he can fight, And swear - why, no one can come near him! I tell you it's a treat to hear him! He can cuss in Spanish and Portugee, Eye-taliano, Chinook, Chinee, A dash of Yank and a smatter of Greek, And as many besides as there's days in the week, And keep it up from the Nore to Dover, And never use a word twice over!