Born in the shops of the Devil
Designed in the brains of a fiend
Filled with acid and crude oil
And christened "A Submarine"
The poets send in their ditties
Of Battleships spick and clean
But never a word in their columns
Do you see of a Submarine
I'll try and depict our story
In a very laconic way
Please have patience to listen
Until I have finished I say
We eat where’re we can find it
And sleep hanging up on the hooks
Conditions under which we're existing
Are never published in books
Life on these boats is obnoxious
And that is using mild terms
We are never bothered by sickness
There isn't any room for germs
We are never troubled with varmints
There are things even a cockroach can't stand
And any self-respecting rodent
Quick as possible beats it for land
And that little one-dollar per dive
We receive to submerge out of sight
Is often earned more than double
By charging batteries at night
And that extra compensation
We receive on boats like these
We never really get at all
It's spent on soap and dungarees
Machinist get soaked in fuel oil
Electricians in H2SO4
Gunnersmates with 600W
And torpedo slush galore
When we come into the Navy Yard
We are looked upon with disgrace
And they make out some new regulations
To fit our particular case
Now all you Battleship sailors
When you are feelin’ disgruntled and mean
Just pack your bag and hammock
And go to "A Submarine"