There's a lass who fondly waits
Making a home for me--"

YANK--[Fiercely contemptuous.] Shut up, yuh lousey boob! Where
d'yuh get dat tripe? Home? Home, hell! I'll make a home for yuh!
I'll knock yuh dead. Home! T'hell wit home! Where d'yuh get dat
tripe? Dis is home, see? What d'yuh want wit home? [Proudly.] I
runned away from mine when I was a kid. On'y too glad to beat it,
dat was me. Home was lickings for me, dat's all. But yuh can bet
your shoit noone ain't never licked me since! Wanter try it, any
of youse? Huh! I guess not. [In a more placated but still
contemptuous tone.] Goils waitin' for yuh, huh? Aw, hell! Dat's
all tripe. Dey don't wait for noone. Dey'd double-cross yuh for a
nickel. Dey're all tarts, get me? Treat 'em rough, dat's me. To
hell wit 'em. Tarts, dat's what, de whole bunch of 'em.

LONG--[Very drunk, jumps on a bench excitedly, gesticulating with
a bottle in his hand.] Listen 'ere, Comrades! Yank 'ere is right.
'E says this 'ere stinkin' ship is our 'ome. And 'e says as 'ome
is 'ell. And 'e's right! This is 'ell. We lives in 'ell, Comrades
--and right enough we'll die in it. [Raging.] And who's ter blame,
I arsks yer? We ain't. We wasn't born this rotten way. All men is
born free and ekal. That's in the bleedin' Bible, maties. But what
d'they care for the Bible--them lazy, bloated swine what travels
first cabin? Them's the ones. They dragged us down'til we're on'y
wage slaves in the bowels of a bloody ship, sweatin', burnin' up,
eatin' coal dust! Hit's them's ter blame--the damned capitalist
clarss! [There had been a gradual murmur of contemptuous
resentment rising among the men until now he is interrupted by a
storm of catcalls, hisses, boos, hard laughter.]