Around the cafes in France,
(The words grow worse
With every verse),
I don’t dare take a chance.
Oh, I long to see the captain in the grave yard,
With the quartermaster sergeant by his side,
And the non-commissioned officers in the tool house
While the privates in the mess hall running wild;
The non-commissioned officers are a bunch of dirty sticks,
They take us to the drill field and they teach us dirty tricks.