Lest if adequately aided he should wipe the strafers out.
Well, our memories may be rotten,
Yet they'll stick to you all right;
Not so soon shall be forgotten
Those whose hearts were fixed more tight
On the salvage of a fetish than the winning of the fight.
When the Bosches bite the gutter
And we let our tongues go loose,
Franker words I hope to utter
In the way of free abuse,