O’s the O.O.[24]; let’s give him a cheer—
It isn’t his fault that nothing comes here.
P are the Piers—see them shiver and shake
Whenever a launch makes a wash with her wake.
Q stands for “Quick,” to the tunnel we dash
When a horrible missile explodes with a crash.
R are the Rumours we hear every day
That the Turkish moral has quite faded away.
S is the gilded Staff Officer—who
Censors my letters and tears them in two.
T is the Taube that drones in the sky
(Thank goodness, I haven’t been ordered to fly!)
U is the Underground sap we expand—
There’s a twopenny tube to the Narrows in hand.
V is for Victory. How we shall sing
Rule, O Britannia, and God Save the King!
W the Wire we put round our works—
We generally find that it’s pinched by the Turks.
X the “X-periments” made with a bomb—
A neat little cross on a nice little tomb.