OUR DRILL SERGEANT

A few months back he wasn't much to speak of;
By profession just a plain commissionaire.
If you addressed him he would touch the peak of
His braided cap and answer you with care,
You see, when he retired from active service,
With medals gained while fighting with the Boer,
His grateful country said, “What you deserve is
A shiny stool outside some office door, My old Non-Com !”
But when our suburb set itself to muster its own battalion of the Spare Time Corps,
The authorities were in a pretty fluster
For want of men to drill the Johnny Raw.
“Now then !” said they (of course, they used politer
Language, with a more persuasive ring),
“This here's your chance, you obsolete old blighter!
Get off the stool and come and serve your King, My old Non-Com !”
So now we all obey him with precision,
And fall in quickly when we hear him shout;
We show respect, and hope he's short of vision
When we wobble as we try to right about,
Oh, you may have been his managing director
When he sat upon that shiny office stool;
But you've got to hold your blanky head erect, or
You're nothing but a (censorated) fool
To this old Non-Com!”

DUDLEY CLARK .