Zero four hundred,
Early to wake,
Early to fuel,
The oiler is,
Hmmm...
Where you find it.
Radar will find it,
Only seaman's eye
Will get you
Along side,
In one piece.
Fifty men
Move as one,
Hauling span wires
Ship to ship,
Then,
Hauling hoses
Ship to ship,
Between the ships
The boiling sea,
Calls out its threat,
'Make no mistake,
Lest you be sucked
Into my jaws,'
Two hundred tiny feet,
Or less,
Between those ships.
We pump as quickly
As we can,
The sooner we can
Break away,
The sooner we can
End this work,
Back breaking,
Dangerous.
For when it's done,
There's other work
Yet to be done,
Perhaps some chow,
As well.
(We hope there's time)
But most of all,
Our tin can,
Can disconnect,
From this giant
Of an oiler,
Break away,
At thirty knots,
Steam safely on
"Duty assigned,"
Full of oil,
Full of food,
Full of movies,
Full of all
That lets it live,
A full work day,
Is yet ahead.