Saturday, 25 August 2012

The Drill Sergeant.

'Left, left, left right left!'
The Sergeant shouts at us,
'left, left, left right left!'
Then he starts to cuss.

'That man there; that four eyed twit!'
I think he's addressing me.
'What's up with your f***ing legs?
 Are you doing a sea-shanty?'

'Left, left, left right left... HALT!
Stand still that man!
You resemble a French tart,
doing the Can-can!'

'Squar-d... Sta-a-a-and at... EASE!
Come on lift those legs;
your not in the RAF you know!
The army lift them six inches off the floor,
then drive them six feet below!'

'I wish he were six feet below,'
I whisper tongue in cheek.
'Who said that?' the sergeant asked,
'I didn't tell you to speak!'

'For speaking in the ranks,
we'll do it all again,
you may have broken your mothers hearts;
but you won't give me no pain!'

'I'm your mother now,
so get your hair cut son,
if it gets any longer,
you could tie it in a bun!'

'You know that wouldn't suit you,
mother knows what's best.
Come on, stick those chests out!
Left, right, left right,  left!'



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