The A.S.C.'s a nobleman; 'e rides a motor-car,
'E is not forced to 'ump a pack, as we footsloggers are;
'E drives 'is lorry through the towns and 'alts for fags and beer;
We infantry, we does without, there ain't no shops up 'ere;
And then for splashin' us with mud 'e draws six bob a day,
For the further away from the line you go the 'igher your rate of pay.
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.
* * * * *