Author Unknown

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 born:
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!
Constitution Wharf


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