Extracted From The
November 1942 Issue of the U.S. Coast Guard Magazine
Coming from deep within the heart of
someone who apparently harbors a deep feeling for the New England regions, the
following poem was submitted anonymously to this column. It is felt by this
writer that somewhere between its rugged lines can be seen a touch of that
intangible something from which patriotism, love, devotion, loyalty, etc., are
Ship me north to good old Boston,
Where the dives are of the worst.
Where there ain't no taste in liquor,
But it sure can quench the thirst.
Where old Scollay Square keeps calling,
And it's there where I would be,
In a booth at the Imperial,
With some gal to drink with me.
Let me feel again the cobbles,
Or the dirt that trips my feet,
As I slowly wander shipward,
From a night on Chelsea Street.
Tie me down with limits plenty,
Stop my rations, cut my pay,
But in dirty, dark old Boston,
Send me there and let me stay!
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