This was mentioned by Bev and Jerry in the opening message of this thread.

From Historic Furnishings Report: Raspberry Island Light Station: Apostle Islands National Lakeshore, Bayfield, Wisconsin, by David H. Wallace (Harpers Ferry, WV: U.S. Dept. of the Interior, National Park Service, 1989), page 257:

Lightkeepers in the U.S. Lighthouse Service often spoke of the trouble they had keeping the brasswork polished at their stations. In response to their cries of frustration, Fred Morong, who was known by the keepers as their "Unofficial Poet Laureate," wrote this poem to describe their plight.


BRASSWORK, or THE LIGHTHOUSE KEEPER'S LAMENT
Fred Morong

O what is the bane of a light keeper's life
That causes him worry, struggle, and strife,
That makes him use cuss words, and beat at his wife?
It's brasswork.

What makes him look ghastly, consumptive, and thin,
What robs him of health, of vigor and vim,
And causes despair and drives him to sin?
It's brasswork.

The devil himself could never invent
A material causing more worldwide lament,
And in Uncle Sam's service, about ninety percent
Is brasswork.

The lamp in the tower, reflector, and shade,
The tools and accessories pass in parade.
As a matter of fact, the whole outfit is made
Of brasswork.

The oil containers I polish until
My poor back is broken, aching; and still.
Each gallon and quart, each pint and each gill
Is brasswork.

I lay down to slumber all weary and sore.
I walk in my sleep; I awake with a snore;
And I'm shining the knob on my bedchamber door.
That's brasswork.

From pillar to post, rags and polish I tote.
I'm never without them, for you will please note
That even the buttons I wear on my coat
Are brasswork.

The machinery, clockwork, and fog-signal bell,
The coal hods, the dustpans, the pump in the well;
Now I'll leave it to you, mates, if this isn't—well,
Brasswork.

I dig, scrub and polish, and work with a might,
And just when I get it all shining and bright,
In comes the fog like a thief in the night.
Good-by, brasswork.

I start the next day and noontime draws near,
A boatload of summer visitors appear,
For no other purpose, than to smooch and besmear
My brasswork.

So it goes all the Summer, and along in the Fall,
Comes the district machinist to overhaul
And rub dirty and greasy paws overall
My brasswork.

And again in the Spring, if perchance it may be,
An efficiency star is awarded to me,
I open the package and what do I see?
More brasswork.

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud,
In the short span of life that he is allowed,
If all the lining in every dark cloud
Is brasswork?

And when I have polished until I am cold
And I'm taken aloft to the Heavenly fold,
Will my harp and my crown be made of pure gold?
No; brasswork.