The Batman

by W. M. W.

With “stand to Arms” at half past three,

in cold and wet and misery,

Who brings a nice, warm cup of tea?

“My Batman.”

Who knows the movement of all troops

and brings the dinkum with my boots?

Who finds but never, never, loots.

“My Batman.”

The last to sleep, the first to rise,

who sorts the rumor as it flies,

and in a whisper puts me wise.

“My Batman.”

Fount of all wisdom without doubt

who knows just what we are about

but very seldom lets it out.

The General’s Batman.