Submarines have no latrines
The men wear leather britches.
They hang their tails out o’r the rails
And yell like sons a’ britches.
The Engineers have hairy ears,
They go without their britches,
They pop their c*cks with jagged rocks,
They're hardy sons of b*tches.
They screw the whores right through their drawers,
They do not care for trifles --
They hang their b*lls upon the walls
And shoot at them with rifles.
Much joy they reap by diddling sheep
In divers nooks and ditches;
Nor give they a damn if they be rams --
They're hardy sons of b*tches.