John Paul Jones
’Tis John Paul Jones—the janitor’s boy,
He lives on the gun-deck floor,
Where all of the windows are action ports,
And the dumbwaiters rattle and roar.
The old trash tins are our hand grenades
And the rugs on the backyard lines—
Are the mains of the Britisher Serapis
That we fight with our bursting “Nines.”
’Tis John Paul Jones—my Admiral;
His hair is a glorious red;
And I am the maiden who serves as the mate
To see that the sawdust is spread.
He leans on the rail of the laundry tubs
As the Serapis lifts on our lee;
Our gun crews chant by the carronades
And the powder boys yell in their glee.
For he who stands in Colonial rags,
Is born to the gift of the game—
Of shaking the dust from a Serapis,
Or the dust from the halls of fame.
I whirl the wheel of the wash machine
In the spray of a soap-suds sea;
But I know in my heart that the daring Jones
Is winning the fight for me.
And I think it is sweet of John Paul Jones,
In playing the good old game,
To do all the fighting just for love—
With never a thought of fame.