My shirt is rather chatty and my socks 'ud make you larf;
It's just a week o' Sundays since they sent us for a barf;
But them that 'as the cushy jobs they lives in style and state,
With a basin in their bedrooms and their dinners on a plate;
For 'tis a law o' nachur with the bloomin' infantry--
The nearer up to the line you go the dirtier will you be.
Blokes at the base, they gets their leave when they've bin out three
munse;
I 'aven't seen my wife and kids for more 'n a year, not once;
The missus writes, "About that pass, you'd better ask again;
I think you must 'ave been forgot." Old girl, the reason's plain:
We are the bloomin' infantry, and you must just believe
That the nearer up to the line you go the less is your chance of leave.
* * * * *
"We cussed at Grosvenor House and some steps in this direction may be
expected if the demands of retailers become more rapacious."--_Daily
Mail._
It is no good abusing the FOOD CONTROLLER, however, or prices would long
ago have been down to zero.
* * * * *
MAB DREAMS OF MAY.
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