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England
1944
Where the
heavy dew whips through the breeze
And you wade through the mud up to your knees
Where the sun don’t shine, and
the rain falls free
And the fog is so thick you can hardly see.
Where we live on brussels sprouts and Spam
And
powdered eggs which ain’t worth a dam,
In town you eat fish and spuds
And down the taste with a mug of suds.
You
hold your nose when you gulp it down,
It hits your stomach, then you frown,
For it burns your tongue, makes your throat
feel queer,
It’s rightly called ‘Bitters’, it sure ain’t beer.
Where the prices are high
and the queues are long
And those Yank G.1.’s are always wrong.
Where you get watered Scotch at four bits a snort,
And
those Limie babies don’t stand short.
And the pitch black nights when you start out late
It’s bloody
black that you can’t navigate.
There’s no transportation so you’ll have to hike,
And you get your
can knocked off by some damn bike.
Where most of the gals are blonde and bold
And they think that every Yank’s
pockets are lined with gold.
Then there are the Piccadilly Commandos with painted allure,
Steer clear of them or it’s
burnt for sure.
This Isle ain’t worth saving I don’t think
Cut the cables, let the damn thing sink.
I
ain’t complaining but I’ll let you know
Life is rougher than a cob in the E.T.O.
‘Yank
in England’
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