Inkpotamus

English sailors went to sea,
In the 18th Century,
Ate bad food and got scurvy,
And often wound up dead, mate.

Without fresh fruit while out at sea,
With rotten biscuits for their tea,
And putrid meat that smelt like wee,
They often wound up dead, mate.

Their skin would blotch, their breath would smell,
Their gums would bleed, their joints would swell,
They had their teeth fall out as well,
And often wound up dead, mate.

Until they saw that it could be,
A simple lack of vitamin C,
Cured by the fruit of a lemon tree,
They often wound up dead, mate.

Cannonballs and broadsides rip,
When fighting with some foreign ship,
Sailors felt each splintered hit,
And often wound up dead, mate.

Blooded sailors shout and scream,
When shards of wood pierced legs unclean,
Their pus-filled flesh would get gangrene,
They often wound up dead, mate.

The ship’s surgeon would urgently,
Cut their leg off at the knee,
Despite the doctor’s surgery,
They often wound up dead, mate.

Sailors fighting overseas,
In dirty fetid ships they’d squeeze,
They were smelly and diseased,
And often wound up dead, mate.

If death from fever they could shun,
And not be killed in war’s mad scrum,
By drinking liver-rotting rum,
They often wound up dead, mate.

How bad could life in England be,
To risk your life far out at sea?
A few would come back wealthily,
But most would wind up dead, mate.