Oh mother my mouth is full of stars
As cartridges in the tray.
My blood is a twin-branched scarlet tree that runs, all runs away.
Oh "Cooks to the galley"
That sounded off.
The lads are down in the mess.
While I lie down by the forrad gun
With a bullet in my breast
Don't send me a parcel at Christmas time
With socks and nutty and wine
And don't depend on a long weekend by the Western Railway line
Fare well Aggie Weston and the Barracks at Guz,
Hang my tiddley suit on the door,
Cause' I'm sewn up neat in a canvas sheet
And I shall be home no more.
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