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When our parties we are personally taking Through a salient[1] that’s like a rabbit-run,And our knees with fear of oil-cans both are quaking, Oh, a bomber’s life is not a happy one.
When we contemplate a little mild aggression, Other officers all gather round and sayIn tones of unmistakable depression, That they’d much prefer it if we’d go away.When at last, by dint of infinite intriguing, They allow a little bombing to be done,And we find that all our men are off fatiguing, Oh, a bomber’s life is not a happy one.
Chorus as before.
- ↑ Thiepval South Salient, of evil memory.
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