The Story of Captain Whisper
The master craved our worshipful acclaim, Yet, set no course to win his men's respect. To master’s rank, he'd a rightful claim, But how his pretensions did run unchecked. He stood radiant, clad in tropic white, His skin blushed red by the Gulf’s fierce glare, And epaulettes glittering gold and bright, Did gild his image with a prideful air. The master like an aged goat, would bleat, To lead his herd, his orders to convey. Oh, he bleated loud, such was his conceit, To earn his disrespectful soubriquet. ‘Whisper’ preened like an aged Wanchai whore, Proud and smiling among his hapless crew, To satisfy himself with all he saw, Yet blind was he to fault his retinue. He ignored the butts of careless smokers, In spaces marked ‘Danger of Gas - No Smoking’! He did not see the host of cock-roaches, That foully seethed within our victualing. When old Whisper idled, oft did he call, For ‘Someone! Someone!’ to do his bidding, Like some fag in an ancient college hall, Our names expunged amid