Fifteen hundred fathoms, she lies- straight down- Heart stopped- in a watery grave uncovered- The Mighty Hood still hoods memories of Clowns With message flags unfurled- into battle hurled Dreaming Glories- like Nelson, Trafalgar bound; Till her magazine, enemy shells discovered And stopped her soul when those ready rounds, found. Then hundreds of souls in the North Sea floundered. And still there , now lies The Mighty Hood Frozen in time in freezing northern seas. The final slumber for her heroic crew But when the robbers come, what can we do To answer those dead sailors’ forlorn pleas And respect this war grave- as we always should?