THE OTHER MAN'S LOSS IS MY GAIN.

I'm a cargo surveyor, a checker and weigher,

I separate; sort and compare.

The stained and the sound, with my ear to the ground,

For misrepresentations, take care!

I boss the longshoremen, a dozen or more men

Drop hooks when they see me pass by.

For "Handling in Transit" how anything stands it is surely a wonder, say I!

There's rumour of shipwrecks, there's oil in the ‘tween decks,

There's salt water, fresh water, brine.

There's contamination, too much fermentation,

And leakage in ten casks of wine.

There's copra that's rotten, six bales of wet cotton, crude rubber, raw sugar and grain.

A ship that’s on fire, just what I require.

The other man's loss is my gain.

An overturned truck is a great piece of luck.

A worm eaten barge is my meat.

A smothering line with a leak is divine

As are ship sweat, and dampness and heat.

Spontaneous ignitions all damage conditions, some matting infected with lice.

And flour with weevils and all sorts of evils,

And coffee with inherent vice.

Some fruit over-ripe, and some old rusted pipe.

Men's shirts, chocolate, candy and soap.

Some toys in trans-shipment, electric

Equipment and coils of the finest hemp rope.

Some pilferage in cases of Chantilly laces, a carton of damaged canned milk.

A statue for Church, and a long futile search

For the cause of some damage to silk.

Some lumber that's green, the worst that I've seen,

Split peas, and some long Chinese hair.

A shipper pernickety, antiques very rickety,

Shoes that just cannot pair!

Irate consignees and some maggots in cheese; some shrimp for Japan packed in ice.

Some damage by hurricane, sisal that's wet by rain,

Pockets of damp swollen rice. 

There's beet-seed that's mildewed, some olives quite ill-hued.

A harp, and some moth eaten books.

A rug from Damascus, a fake if you ask us,

That's damaged by stevedores' hooks,

A cargo-surveyor! A life that is gayer; you really must search far to find.

With trips out of town that I never turn down,

Though hundred odd-jobs trail behind! 

For the G.A. Adjuster, my forces I muster

To minimise loss I sweat blood.

I squeeze the last dollar, though retailers holler,

The market with off grade I flood.

I salvage wet carbon black, poke at a bag that is slack, climb over mountains of scrap.

I help stow some big sedans, look at some leaking cans,

Finding what caused the mishap. 

There's heat that's intense, there is smoke that is dense;

And holds that are dark-some and deep;

And jobs late at night when it's really a fight

To ward off some much needed sleep.

Now I'm not complaining I'm merely explaining, the ins and outs of my trade.

For take it or leave it, I like it, believe it,

It’s one way of making the grade.