Decaying corpses, unique stench
With cordite blowing, past our trench
I no longer hear the warning rattle
But smell and taste impending battle

In the distance sounds a Lewis Gun
Maybe aimed at some unlucky Hun
So far in front of our barbed wire
Amongst the brown serrated mire

The Corporal said this place was ‘Wipers’
Mud and blood and German Snipers
The Sergeant Major called it Ypres
...

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"Unload!.... safety catch, pouch, magazine off..

(From the range we smell the scoff)

"Clear, ease springs"

The Sergeant sings

Time to queue up at the trough

There's nothing quite like the old 'Range Stew'

Two rounds of bread with a nice hot brew

From the mess tin

I'm not jestin'

Made by chefs who have no clue

Soft boot shuffle with your mate

No place here...

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