FORE AND AFT.
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.