The Poetry of William Thudworth
St. John-Smith

They sent me abroad with a shipload of boys as green as the grass on the moors
We sang shanties halfway to Gibraltar, then passed through the strait with a roar
The lads anchored the ship south of Cyprus, tomorrow we head for the shore
With our chins held up high we will fight 'til we die in this bloody unspeakable war.

We've been trained to kill Turks but we're now killing time as we wait for the cold light of day
When dawn comes a-calling we'll head for the beach and By God we'll make Johnny Turk pay
And speaking of heaven, that's where I will turn with the lads when they're ready to pray
But for now we'll mark time with this bayonet rhyme about blowing the Turkish away.

And oh, what to do with a Turk's severed foot, asked the private who waved one about
Should I tuck it away as a trophy or throw the dismembered thing out
It's a wide sort of foot and most sturdy, I'd venture the Turk was quite stout

He had corns and large warts and some fungus from sports, and By Jove the man suffered from gout. I could wave it about like a weapon, I could stick it in somebody's eye
It could serve as a great fleshy hankie should a soldier be driven to cry
If we find ourselves near to starvation, we could serve it with mustard on rye
'Though I'd wager the flipper'd be tastier kipper'd or baked in me mam's kidney pie.

These things we did sing of that evening, an army of warriors afloat
We thought only of God, Queen and country, awaiting the trumpeter's note
Should we find a spare foot we knew just what to do, we’d shove it down Johnny Turk's throat
On the shores of the Bosphorus, lit by dawn's phosphorus, "Charge, lads!" was all that she wrote.

The great battle was lost 'ere it started, and our cause it could never be found
Hordes of Turkey's mustachioed soldiers had taken the much higher ground
So with stiff upper lips and By Jingos, we advanced though our comrades were downed
All the body parts there were quite British, and quite thoroughly scattered around.

Now I'm pensioned in jolly old England, and I'm proud that I don't have to beg
I've a wife and a cane and a cottage, and a little Welsh corgi named Meg
And oh, what to do with a Turk's severed foot, I can tell you from deep in my keg
Should you come across one send it down to old John, and I'll stitch it upon my left leg.

(Sung to the tune of "I'd Rather Be Squatting in Surrey")