“We’re lost!” the navigator wailed.

“I knew we never ought

To see the Rhine to starboard and

The House of Lords to port”.

“I’ve got it!” cried the engineer.

(He’d caught it years ago.)

“It’s all to do with Einstein

And the tides at Scapa Flow”.

The navigator blew his stack

And bellowed acrid smoke.

Then wrote a letter to The Times 

And then his pencil broke.

At which the skipper got quite cross

And wished he hadn’t joined.

(But decency forbids to tell

The pungent words he coined.)

“Well point t’thing at Lincolnshire”

The gunner said at last.

“Tha’d better get a move on lad,

That’s Cairo we’ve just passed!”.

“I knew a girl in Cairo once!”

The perky ‘sparks’ remarked.

So thrilling was the memory 

He promptly disembarked.

“If I divide by ninety nine”,

The navigator mused,

“Then integrate reciprocals

We’ll get the Hun confused”.

“Look, never mind the bloody Hun”,

The skipper snapped in haste,

“It’s clear to me we’re late for tea

My favourite, bloater paste”.

And then he started singing in

A manner loud and wild.

Behaviour which, the gunner thought,

Would scarce become a child.

Yet on they flew and ever on

With nothing on the clock.

“At this rate”, moaned the engineer,

“We’ll all end up in hock!”.

But then the navigator grinned,

“I’ve worked it out my son!

I think the answer is”, he said, 

“I think it can’t be done!”.

So, if you meet a Halifax

A-circling in space,

Don’t be alarmed, it’s just our lads

Still looking for their base.