It was later one evening,
one of those weary days in May,
when I turned towards the taps,
decided to have a soak,
rest my ten toes, so relax.
An hour in the musky steam,
in the bath’s watery hollow,
when I had a strange notion
I was being observed,
silently, stealthily followed.
It wasn’t my imagination,
somewhere below strobed a light
then up came a peering periscope
between my legs, tickled my hairs
scanned my bobbing flacid wares
up and down…ahem.
A soviet spider came up from a hatch,
said I was in restricted waters,
told me to leave, insisted in fact,
but of course I ignored his request,
these were my private quarters.
As the sub submerged to the deep,
I aimed a missile from my left cheek,
sent in a personal fleet of rubber ducks
which hit the target with precision,
sunk the sub with bubbling derision.
Now I only shower I find,
of course it’s safer to be standing,
nothing can catch me unawares,
only slippery suds off the flannel rub,
last peril of owning a submariner’s tub.
