To say next Tuesday Christmas is occurring,
And what arrangements have Battalions made?
And then, maybe, while everyone discusses
On what rich foods their dear commands shall dine,
And (most efficiently) the Padre fusses
About the birds, the speeches and the wine—
The Corps-Commander sends a fleet of 'buses
To whisk you off to Christmas in the line.
You make no moan, nor hint at how you're faring,
And here in turn we try to hide our woe,