In olden days--those were the golden days--
Would you hold converse with your friend "YE"
At Washington, you let the Fleet rave on,
And chatted gayly with him at the key,
Not caring to disregard all scheme or plan,
You opened up with "Here's a note, old man,"
But wireless to-day runs on a different plan.
It's Hoops, Old Hoop,
He changed those easy ways.
Order rescinding order keeps us in a daze.
If you want to know what gink
Put social wireless on the blink
It's Hooper, old Hooper, he's the goop.
Time was when, on a battleship, thoughts tender might intrude
Of sweethearts, even wives, who wept ashore,
"Just ask the Chief at NAM to phone this up for me, "-----
This was the password, but it is no more.
The Postal Clerk computes the station charge--and gets it wrong,
The C.O. then endorses it, and maybe before long
Marconi condescends to forward love's eternal song.
It's Hoops, that's why,
Who other could it be?
He is the man who owns the copyright on QRT
If you really want to know
Who put "I owe" in "Radio"
It's Hooper, old Hooper, he's the guy.
The conning tower thru its narrow eyes surveys the scene
And feels itself sunk to a storeroom's state.
With switchboards, relays, tuners, keys, in all availing space,
There seems no chance for things of lesser weight.
Such minor apparatus as control of helm or speed,
A super-Hooper-dreadnaught of course could never need.
Install! Install! There yet is room! Prove, prove, the Newer Creed.
|It's Hoops (You knew it?)
'Tis his the scheme, of course.
Should not the brain have full control o'er bowel-hidden force?
On, on to Victory!
Press, press, the fluent key!
And Hooper, old Hooper, He will do it.
When Giant and Athletic meet before--a countless throng
To battle for a name--and many yen;
When from the far-flung bleakness of Cape Cod the whisper comes
Of tiny happenings in the world of men,
Whose hand directs the order that bids tactics bide apace,
As inning after inning flings its record into space,
Or T.T. tells the outcome of the 1916 race?
It's Hoops, he did;
The C. in C. may sign,
But when the bets are paid in coin, cigars, or even wine,
Well, well, the wardroom knows
To whom the credit goes.
It's Hooper, old Hooper, good old kid.
When on the dim horizon line a mighty warship lies,
Then moves, responsive to a hidden sign,
Harmonious with her sister ships that dot the distant deep,
To form as one in one manoeuvered line,
Whose years of earnest effort made such ordered actions show,
And prove by demonstration the worth of radio,
Till even the prejudice of years must needs admit it so?
It's Hoops! His ways
At last have gained their goal,
The flagship reaches out across the waters to control,
In unity complete
The Ship yields to the Fleet
And Hooper, old Hooper, deserves the praise.