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For every dug-out is a menagerie,
Where the trenches run down from the Somme to the sea.
Where the trenches run down from the Somme to the sea.
The sap that I stand in, it nightly is made
Into hell by a thing they call Rifle Grenade,
And when heavy trench mortars are bursting close by
It is not lust of battle that gleams in my eye.
Don’t think me a coward though, Mary, my dear,
For along the whole front it’s the same thing I fear,
And every young hero is funking like me,
Where the trenches run down from the Somme to the sea.
Into hell by a thing they call Rifle Grenade,
And when heavy trench mortars are bursting close by
It is not lust of battle that gleams in my eye.
Don’t think me a coward though, Mary, my dear,
For along the whole front it’s the same thing I fear,
And every young hero is funking like me,
Where the trenches run down from the Somme to the sea.
At Albert they’ve lately begun an advance
Which is going to shove all the Bosches out of France,
And we are all waiting and hoping some day
To meet with the gentlemen over the way.
And oh, what a state of delight we’ll be in
When we’re bombing our way up the streets of Berlin,
So I hope in a few months I surely shall be
In a train running down from Berlin to the sea.
Which is going to shove all the Bosches out of France,
And we are all waiting and hoping some day
To meet with the gentlemen over the way.
And oh, what a state of delight we’ll be in
When we’re bombing our way up the streets of Berlin,
So I hope in a few months I surely shall be
In a train running down from Berlin to the sea.
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