The fleas they wander nightly, as soon as I’ve undressed,
And after many weary hunts I’ve had to give them best.
As the ants have also found it, there is very little rest
In my cosy little dug-out on the hill.
I’ve a natty little cupboard, and it looks so very nice,
’Twas made to keep my bread and jam, my bacon and my rice;
But now it’s nothing other than a home for orphan’d mice,
In my cosy little dug-out on the hill.
There is no electric lighting in this blighted land of war,
So I use some fat in syrup tins, and stand it on the floor—