I Have No Gift Of Words, But

Men, Not Children Or Servants, Tempered And Taught To The End; Cleansed Of Servile Panic, Slow To Dread Or Despise, Humble Because Of Knowledge, Mighty By Sacrifice.

It Was The Forty-fathom Slumber That Clears The Soul And Eye And Heart, And Sends You To Breakfast Ravening. They Emptied A Big Tin Dish Of Juicy Fragments Of Fish- The Blood-ends The Cook Had Collected Overnight. They Cleaned Up The Plates And Pans Of The Elder Mess, Who Were Out Fishing, Sliced Pork For The Midday Meal, Swabbed Down The Foc'sle, Filled The Lamps, Drew Coal And Water For The Cook, An Investigated The Fore-hold, Where The Boat's Stores Were Stacked. It Was Another Perfect Day - Soft, Mild And Clear; And Harvey Breathed To The Very Bottom Of His Lungs.

If I Were Dammed Of Body And Soul, I Know Whose Prayers Would Make Me Whole, Mother O' Mine O Mother O' Mine.

When You're Wounded And Left On Afghanistan's Plains, And The Women Come Out To Cut Up What Remains, Jest Roll To Your Rifle And Blow Out Your Brains And Go To Your Gawd Like A Soldier.

He Will Kill Mice And He Will Be Kind To Babies...but When The Moon Gets Up And The Night Comes, He Is The Cat That Walks By Himself.