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Now each of us from time to time, has gazed upon the sea
And watched the warship pulling out, to keep this country free.
And most of us have read the book, or heard the lusty tale
About the men who sail these ships, through lightning, wind and hail.
But there’s a place within each ship, that stories never reach
and there’s a special breed of men, that legends rarely teach.
It’s down below the waterline, It takes a living roll.
A hot metallic hell, that sailors call the “HOLE”.
It houses engines run by steam, that make the shafts go round.
A place of fire and noise and heat, that beat your spirits down.
Where boilers like a hellish heart, with blood of angry steam
Are armored gods without remorse, are nightmares in a dream.
Whose threat that from the fires roar, is like a living doubt
That any minute would scorn, escape, and crush you out
Where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in hell
As ordered from above somewhere, they answer every bell.
The men who keep the fires lit, and make the engine run
Are strangers to the world of night, rarely see the sun.
They have no time for man or god, no tolerance for fear
Their aspect pays no living thing, the tribute of a tear.
For there’s not much that men can do, that these men haven’t done
Beneath the decks, deep in the hole, to make the engines run.
And every hour of every day they keep the watch in hell
For if the fires ever fail, their ship’s a useless shell.
When ships converge to have a war, upon and angry sea
The men below just grimly smile at what their fate might be
They’re locked below like men foredoomed, she hear no battle cry.
It’s well assumed that if they’re hit, the men below will die.
There’s not much difference down below, that ever war may bring
For threat of ugly violent death, down there’s a common thing.
For every day’s a war down there, when the gauges all read red
Twelve hundred pounds of heated steam, can kill you mighty dead.
So every man down in the hole, has learned to hate so sell
That when you speak to them of fear, their laughter’s heard in hell.
The men below are fools who watch, their spirits slowly die
Who often can’t remember how, a cloud looks in the sky
So if you ever wrote their song, or tried to tell their take.
The very works would make you hear, a desperate spirit’s wail.
And people, as a general rule don’t hear a dying soul
So little’s heard about this place, that sailors call “THE HOLE”.
But I can sing about this place, and try to make you see
The hopeless life of men down there, “Cause one of them is me.”
And I’ve been down there so long, that part of me has died.
The part that lives on without light, to be a lost hope’s guide.
I’ve seen these sweat-soaked heroes’ fight, in super-heated air
To keep their ship alive and right, though no one knows they’re there
Amid the boiler’s mighty heart, and the turbines hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out to meet a warlike foe
Remember faintly, if you can, THE MEN WHO SAIL BELOW….
Now each of us from time to time, has gazed upon the sea
And watched the warship pulling out, to keep this country free.
And most of us have read the book, or heard the lusty tale
About the men who sail these ships, through lightning, wind and hail.
But there’s a place within each ship, that stories never reach
and there’s a special breed of men, that legends rarely teach.
It’s down below the waterline, It takes a living roll.
A hot metallic hell, that sailors call the “HOLE”.
It houses engines run by steam, that make the shafts go round.
A place of fire and noise and heat, that beat your spirits down.
Where boilers like a hellish heart, with blood of angry steam
Are armored gods without remorse, are nightmares in a dream.
Whose threat that from the fires roar, is like a living doubt
That any minute would scorn, escape, and crush you out
Where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in hell
As ordered from above somewhere, they answer every bell.
The men who keep the fires lit, and make the engine run
Are strangers to the world of night, rarely see the sun.
They have no time for man or god, no tolerance for fear
Their aspect pays no living thing, the tribute of a tear.
For there’s not much that men can do, that these men haven’t done
Beneath the decks, deep in the hole, to make the engines run.
And every hour of every day they keep the watch in hell
For if the fires ever fail, their ship’s a useless shell.
When ships converge to have a war, upon and angry sea
The men below just grimly smile at what their fate might be
They’re locked below like men foredoomed, she hear no battle cry.
It’s well assumed that if they’re hit, the men below will die.
There’s not much difference down below, that ever war may bring
For threat of ugly violent death, down there’s a common thing.
For every day’s a war down there, when the gauges all read red
Twelve hundred pounds of heated steam, can kill you mighty dead.
So every man down in the hole, has learned to hate so sell
That when you speak to them of fear, their laughter’s heard in hell.
The men below are fools who watch, their spirits slowly die
Who often can’t remember how, a cloud looks in the sky
So if you ever wrote their song, or tried to tell their take.
The very works would make you hear, a desperate spirit’s wail.
And people, as a general rule don’t hear a dying soul
So little’s heard about this place, that sailors call “THE HOLE”.
But I can sing about this place, and try to make you see
The hopeless life of men down there, “Cause one of them is me.”
And I’ve been down there so long, that part of me has died.
The part that lives on without light, to be a lost hope’s guide.
I’ve seen these sweat-soaked heroes’ fight, in super-heated air
To keep their ship alive and right, though no one knows they’re there
Amid the boiler’s mighty heart, and the turbines hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out to meet a warlike foe
Remember faintly, if you can, THE MEN WHO SAIL BELOW….
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