They bear, in place of classic names, 
Letters and numbers on their skin.
They play their grisly blindfold games
In little boxes made of tin.

Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin, 
Sometimes they learn where mines are laid
Or where the Baltic ice is thin.
That is the custom of 'The Trade'.

Their feats, their fortunes and their fames 
Are hidden from their nearest kin;
No eager public backs or blames,
No journal prints the yarns they spin
(The Censor will not let them in!)

When they return from run or raid. 
Unseen they work, unseen they win.
That is the custom of 'The Trade'.

The long version:

They bear, in place of classic names,
Letters and numbers on their skin.
They play their grisly blindfold games
In little boxes made of tin.

Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin,
Sometimes they learn where mines are laid
Or where the Baltic ice is thin.
That is the custom of 'The Trade'.

Few prize courts sit upon thier claims.
They seldom tow their targets in.
They follow certain secret aims
Down under, Far from strife or din.

When they are ready to begin
No flag is flown, no fuss is made
No more than the shearing of a pin.
That is the custom of 'The Trade'.

The scout's quadruple funnel flames
A mark from Sweden to the Swim,
The Cruiser's thund'rous screw proclaims
Her coming out and going in.

But only whiffs of parafin
Or creamy rings that fizz and fade
Show where the one-eyed Death has been.
That is the custom of 'The Trade'.

Their feats, their fortunes and their fames
Are hidden from their nearest Kin;
No eager public backs or blames,
No journal prints the yarn they spin,

When they return from run or raid.
Unheard they work, unseen they win.
That is the custom of 'The Trade'.