I sing of the Service fast going to pot,
And it seems no one cares a tittle or jot,
Now, any jackass, when not eating grass,
Can bray regulations and have them to pass.
It looks much as if we were surely between
A reformatory school and a place not so cool;
And we look like fat little boys of fifteen
Who had played in the dirt
And when whipt had been pert,
And so had to go without our dessert.