Corned Beef
It's under all that junk,
It's can is square not round,
Sliced, mashed or diced,
The cooks, they love it
With pickle and mustard,
By now you should have worked out
It is not SPAM or spinach leaf,
Back to the index
Apon the starboard side,
Lies one of the ships main supplies
Called Matts bunk
So it is easily found
It's served in a trice
Cause down their gobs the crew do shove it
Not jam or custard
What this poem is all about.
But good old CORNED BEEF!