With apolgies to Felicia Browne Hemans
and intended to be shouted aloud by any sergeant-major with a cockney accent.

The Boy stood on
the burning deck
his Captain was
a fucking wreck
cornered deeply
the borg was out
to break his neck.

The motherfucker
wore perfume
he knew that they'd be
coming soon
the roses were all
redly strewn
pricks around
the fucking room.

Chiisuta took that
first deathwatch
a job we thought
she'd surely botch
but she spat man juice
and scratched her crotch
at the prospect of some
fresh boy notch.

The end game was
upon us all
(Hal was in his
lacey shawl)
it was less of a fight
and more of a brawl;
all gave some
but some gave all.

I saw the Poop's
own arsehole clench
as Hunter flew above
the trench.
He shouted down
"Three cheers you wench!"
as Chii displayed
her tightest clench.

She said "Don't send boys
to do a woman's job.
Don't kiss and tell
don't cum and sob.
If we want to be different
from the usual mob
we must walk the walk
or shut the gob.

We got email
from the man upstairs
I was quite surprised
caught unawares
he said he was devoid
of all worldly cares;
when you're that far gone
you can't count in pairs.

In the end we only
fight for the bloke
who stands beside us
and shares a toke
who knows the army
is a fucking joke
who joined up poor
and's worse than broke.

We've been driven back
and forth and aft
watched better men
all get the shaft
wound up dead
and even laughed
at the crap we write
that shitty draft.

But wars rage bitter
on and on
and still our fire
remains as strong
and each of us
can sing the song
of love betrayed
and led along.

The past is always
clearer, good
and men imagine
that they would
be better soldiers
if they could
return to that they
think they should.

Now let us drink
to our civil wars
and remember that
they still endorse
our love of effect
and not just cause:
The King is dead
let's fuck his whores.