The Mess Boy
He had contempt that was divine
For every sailor that he fed,
For while they talked of “Fun” and “Wine”
He read.
He washed their dishes, made their bed,
And gave their bodies joy with grace;
Nor could their insults on his head
Erase
That fine immobile pride of his,
In the embraces of each man
He was as different as a kiss
For every sailor that he fed,
For while they talked of “Fun” and “Wine”
He read.
He washed their dishes, made their bed,
And gave their bodies joy with grace;
Nor could their insults on his head
Erase
That fine immobile pride of his,
In the embraces of each man
He was as different as a kiss
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