Fitzgerald be a large-sized boat;
Her spars reacheth the sky.
In wat’ry clime, she maketh time,
Horsepower output: high.

One of the best, is the view held
By those that waters ply.

So wide and wondrous is her deck
For steaming through the mist.
When she moveth, she moveth fast
And holdeth no grain grist.

The deck, the mist, no grainy grist
She takes from pier to pier.
Above all, she is water-tight
And from her tack shan’t veer.

This boat will take to market flakes
Of taconite, not tail-
ings of an ore that surely should
Be Yucca-stuffed—that would be good. . .
Not fit for ships that sail.
(Like Fitz, blitzed by a gale?)

On her she’ll take no markèd flakes—
Shipshape crew one and all.
They range from boys to mature men,
Each to the other is a friend,
And all have hauled in squalls.

Full is she of taconite ore
And resteth on her keel.
Painted proudly upon her side
A name with Eire-head appeal.

How is it came she by this name?
Ironically, the one
For whom her sobriquet she gained,
A man from whom you’d run. . .
Ran an insurance company
For whom work was begun.

This stately ship with all her spars
Was financed through the grace
Of Northwestern Mutual Life; near
Michigan was the place

Her vastness was built by a crowd
Of workers of good cheer.
When Fitzgerald’s construction was done,
They broke out not the beer.

The champagne from Mum could have come—
On the christening date
The first attempt failed, so did two,
To smash the bottle; three proved true.
Perhaps a sign of fate?

A bright red and white sight was she,
At the docks to behold.
Her skin was tight and fissure-free,
Not in the fleet of fisheries.
Big, brazen, brash, and bold.

In greatness, bulk, no other name
To mind came; she was twice
The size in tons of other ones
And looked shiny-new nice.

Yes, the fit ship was large and stout;
You’d find that they had parked
Twenty-five thousand tons ere she
From the dock had embarked.

In height, thirty-eight feet rose up,
Sumptuous place in which to sup
Also on drinks to sip.
Commodious, not cramped or tight,
The quarters composed a delight
To sailors on this ship.
Although ’twas was not blessed with a bar,
A snort was not off very far. . .
To their bunks for a nip.

A freighter she was, not a schoon-
er lithely floating by
With, in its ranks, a Yuppie gang
On white wine getting high.

On this ship were manly men
Who drank beer and not Rhône,
Who man the pumps, e’en in the dumps. . .
No grumpiness intone.

The boat weighted, the water line
Rose for all that they’d stowed.
Her length was 729. . .
Ready the boat, ready the load.