"I want it bad. I want to git right out
An' plug some josser in the briskit—'ard.
I want to 'owl an' chuck me arms about,
An' jab, an' guard,
An' swing, an' upper-cut, an' crool some pitch,
Or git passed out meself—I don't care w'ich.
"There's some blokes 'ere they've tumbled to a stunt
Fer gittin' 'em the spell that they deserves.
They chews some cordite when life at the front
Gits on their nerves.
It sends yer tempracher clean out uv sight,
An', if yeh strike a simple doc, yer right.
"I tries it once. Me soul 'ad got the sinks.
Me thorts annoyed me, an' I 'ad the joes,
I feels like no one loves me, so I thinks,
Well, Mick, 'ere goes!
I breaks a cartridge open, chews a bit.
Reports I'm sick, an' throws a fancy fit.
"Me lovin' sargint spreads the gloomy noos,
I gits paraded; but, aw, 'Struth! me luck!
It weren't no baby doc I interviews.
But some ole buck
Wiv gimblet eyes. 'Put out yer tongue!' 'e 'owls.
Then takes me temp, an' stares at me, an' growls.
