There's a roll and a pitch, a heave and a pitch
To the nautical gait they take,
For they're used to the cant of the quarter deck's slant
As the white toothed combers break
On the plates that hum like a beaten drum
To the thrill of the turbines might,
As the knife bow leaps through the foamy deep
With the speed of a shell in flight.
Oh, their scorn is deep for the crews who keep
To the battleship's steady floor
For they love the lurch of their own frail perch
At thirty five knots or more.
They don't get much of the drill and such
That the battleship sailors do
For they sail the seas in dungarees
A grey destroyer's crew.
They need not climb at their sleeping time
To a hammock that sways and bumps
For they leap kerplunk into a cozy bunk
That quivers and bucks and jumps.
They hear the sound of the seas that pound
On the half inch plates of steel
And they close their eyes to the lullabies
Of the creaking sides and keel.
They're a lusty crowd that's vastly proud
Of the slim grey craft they drive
Of the roaring flues and the humming screws
Which make her a thing alive.
They love the lunge of her surging plunge
And the murk of her smokescreen too.
As they sail the seas in their dungarees
A grey destroyer's crew.
-*-

Nine tin cans sailed out one night
To look at Kavieng.
They steamed right in and shot their wad
And came back home again
The Little Yellow Bastards
With timidity could see
That this was Squadron Forty-Five
The greatest on the sea.

One Division hit Rabaul,
The other hit Kavieng.
The Japs came out to take a look,
They turned around and ran.
They radioed to Tokyo,
"We're running for our lives,
For all the ships out here tonight
Are Desron Forty-Five's."

Commodore "Whitey" looked out on day,
To see what he could see.
He rubbed his eyes and slapped his thighs
And said it couldn't be.
But there as plain as day, sir
And right before his face
Was the bloody Willie Wadsworth
Three stations out of place.

He turned and grabbed the phone
To shout by TBS
"What the hell, What the hell!"
He was pretty sore, I guess.
The Willie Wadsworth stammered
And answered with a croak,
"We can not find our station, sir,
In all this Terry smoke."

The ships of Desron Forty-Five
Steamed up Augusta Bay
The Japs came out to drop their bombs;
It was an awful day
It would have been our last, too,
And it would not be heaven,
Excepting for the Anthony's
A-knockin down eleven.

The Vals came in from up above,
The Kates from dead ahead.
The Anthony was a ball of fire
A-belchin' forth the lead.
It was a phenominal record
And now she hesitates,
To tell you with a broken heart,
"They were P-Thirty-Eights."

Of all the squadrons on the seas,
There is a certain one
Whose ships will always lead the way
In fighting and in fun.
They're all jolly good fellows
Who'll pledge for you their lives,
I'm speaking of the men, my friend,
Of Desron Forty-Five.

(Can be sung to the tune resembling
"I'm A Rambling Wreck.")
-*-