Song Of The Service

I sing of the Service fast going to pot, And it seems no one cares a tittle or jot, Now, any jackass, when not eating grass, Can bray regulations and have them to pass. It looks much as if we were surely between A reformatory school and a place not so cool; And we look like fat little boys of fifteen Who had played in the dirt And when whipt had been pert, And so had to go without our dessert.

We must sign every time we come out or go in, And all our small faults are writ down as a sin. In a manner to gall him, each is put in a column Arranged to exhibit him naked and solemn. Some day soon we expect to all carry passes, And each Monday morn, at sound of a horn, We’ll line up for a dose of sulphuretted molasses, And get a badge of red tape To show any old ape Our insides are in shape!