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Let's sing of a subject that's in every mouth Of a sailor, wherever he's bound, north or south ; Our owners' invention well worthy some fuss, Since from it they get all the work that's in us ; The solid that oaks might have hewn from each trunk, That makes hearts of oak of us, jolly salt junk.
What it is, that's a mystery never cleared quite ; Mahogany plainly it looks to the sight; It chews like that wood and to both, on my life, A saw you should use as the best sort of knife ; To know one from 'tother, just study a hunk. 'Twill puzzle you quite, so like wood is good junk.
The knowing-ones other things of it have guessed, But the jee-up-wo theory's held far the best; Why were horses created ? let's whisper aside, Not that sailors upon them should balance astride,