And now behold the Merchant Submarine!
Only its peeking periscope is seen,
But what a cyclorama it reveals
To those below! Thru surging seas it steals
And vies with dolphins, porpoises and sharks
To keep apace with brigantines and barks;
And, tho itself unseen, it's proud to show
To what low depths a submarine can go.
The Cyclops sees as well by night as day;
Its father, Neptune, gives it right of way:
Amphibious, it rides the Ocean's crest,
Or in its sunken Gardens takes its rest.
This new-type boat we designate as It
Because no other pronoun seems to fit.
No water-laden craft could be a He,
Nor one unspoken could be rated She.
The Germans call it _unter_: O. U. Cargo!
They aim to close the bar on the embargo.
Beneath the waves no lurching doth it feel
But speeds its course upon an even keel.
With duplex engines and a double crew,
(It's "manned" by mermaids when it's hid from view).
It scoffs at dangers, tho they lurk around,
And shuts its _eye_ to perils that abound.
There's scant spare space, but still its ribs enfold
A priceless cargo in its shallow hold.
Past hostile ships into a neutral haven,
It comes up smiling with all flags a wavin'.
But now these "Cargo Craft" throw off disguise
And cut our neutral throats: it's no surprise
That dastards, who as "scraps of paper" rate
Their solemn Treaties, would thus lie in wait
And murder innocents without emotion,
Making a shambles of the outraged Ocean.
Now lashed to fury, see the waves rebel
And sweep these Prussian Pirates down to Hell!
No longer neutral the Avenging Sword
Is in our hands to smite the Hun-hound horde.
The God of Joshua, in righteous wrath
Will, in its flight thru empyrean path,
Command the Sun to stop: it is His will!
Till _Kultur_ be effaced--and not until.