Here's one from Jenness that focuses on the naval big-gun accident described as a "flare-back" and not to be read by the squeamish:

THE FLARE-BACK

(Poem by Burt Franklin Jenness
From MAN-O'-WAR RHYMES, edited by Burt Franklin Jenness,
The Cornhill Publishing Co., Boston, US, © 1918, pp. 43-46)

So they won't ship me over today, eh?
Too old, did you say, an' too lame?
It's a hard knock, Cap'n, t' go 'way
An' know ye're clean out o' th' game.
That scar? Aye, Sir, it's a bad un;
Kind o' cripples th' leg some, I know.
Duty? Aye, Sir, 'twas a mad gun,
Back in 'ninety. Wal, Cap't, I'll go.

The story? Wal, now, Sir, ye're kind.
Set here, ye say? Thank ye, I will.
Seems good t'us old uns ter find
A "striper" who's kind t' us still.
Wal, Sir, you'll remember, I reckon,
When th' Ranger put in with her dead,
Night after her quarter-deck gun,
(Twelve-inch) ran amuck in th' head.

You don't? Wal, Sir, may God spare you
Sich a sight as I saw that day,
And th' hell that I lived through there too,
That night in Pensacola Bay.
The Ranger wuz out fer a record
At target manoeuvres that spring.
She wuz hittin', Sir, too, an' I 'spect 'u'd
'A' won it clean – but fer one thing.

Our pride wuz th' quarter-deck turret;
I wuz pointin' fer gun number four.
"Black Baby," we called her, an', Sir, it
Seemed like she knew it – an' more.
Wal, 't was long about dusk uv a Friday,
We'd only a run more t' go.
An', Sir, I've seen gun crews in my day;
I've seen 'em that's fast, an' that's slow.

But, Gad! Sir, them lads wuz a-heavin'
Five hundred pound shell t' th' breech,
S' fast that th' lock wuz nigh seethin'
– An', God! How th' Baby 'u'd screech!
Wal, we steamed on th' range fer th' last run,
S' dark I c'u'd skeerce see th' raft.
"More speed on th' starb'd aft gun,"
Wuz th' word that th' Cap'n sent aft.

An', my God! Not a man there c'u'd answer,
(Ye'll 'scuse my expressin' things so)
But th' crew wuz struck dumb to a man, Sir,
'S if death sent th' message below.
The place wuz s' plumb-full o' silence
Ye c'u'd cut th' air, Sir, with a knife,
An' somethin' gripped us like a sentence,
When th' Judge is condemin' a life.

Wal, they loaded, then gazed at each other,
An' stood there, froze stark at th' gun;
Er fingered their throats like they'd smother,
– Then the siren blew twice fer th' run,
An' th' bugle blast sounded fer firin'.
Wal, that crew, Sir, wuz off like a shot;
Black as a stoker perspirin',
Rammin' her home when she's hot.

Receivin', an' shovin', an' primin',
(Stripped t' th' waist they wuz, stark.)
Lockin' th' breech, an' no timin',
"Steady, now," "Ready." An' "Mark."
We'd found th' spot, too, Sir, wuz makin'
A string that 'ud do th' craft proud.
Faster, th' breech-lock wuz breakin'
An' closin' – no heed o' the cloud

O' th' blasphemous stuff from th' muzzle,
Chokin', but shovin' her down,
Makin' th' "Black Betty" guzzle
Th' lead, an' th' smokeless "brown."
God knows, Sir, how long we wuz steamin',
But we'd made nigh a half o' th' run,
When o' sudden, I thought I wuz dreamin',
An' sailin' straight into th' sun.

A million stars seemed t' be flashin',
An' then: O my God, what a roar!
Like shriekin worlds fallin' an' crashin'
– Then I didn't know nuthin' more
Till a lantern gleam 'woke me, an' turnin' –
(It couldn't beworse, Sir, in hell)
There, a mass o' charred flesh, an' still burnin',
Wuz our crew, in a heap, where they fell.

Ye can talk o' th' sights in the trenches,
But th' hauntin' o' dead in that hole,
The shrieks o' the dyin'; th' stenches;
They stab, Sir, ter yer very soul.
Stripped, like a derelick hulk; dead,
Th' Lieutenant lay, shy o' both legs,
I wuz jammed agin th' after bulkhead,
With th' rammer shaft piled on my pegs.

Kind o' felt so, at first, they wuz missin',
But a couple there looked like my own,
In th' rags, though, I saw somethin' glisten,
– 'Twas part o' my own shin bone.
Wal, that's 'bout th' heft o' th' tale, Sir,
'Cept I'm all that was left o' th' crew.
Gad! But you look a bit pale, Sir,
Don't mind what I've said – an' I'm through.

Ye're better now, Sir, I'll be goin';
I'll git along somehow, I 'spect.
A waiver, ye say? That's a-showin' –
What! Fer me, Sir, my age an' defect?
Ye'll 'scuse me 'f I seem a bit soft, Sir;
I'll jes wipe these old eyes s' I can
See your face: Oh, I know ye're an off'cer,
But, By God! Sir, ye're more – ye're a man!

The last verse certainly chokes one up, if you survived that far, navigating through the lower deck dialect and the carnage. This poem has to be based on a story from a messmate of Jenness.

Charley Noble