Cells

I’ve a head like a concertina, I’ve a tongue like a button-stick,
I’ve a mouth like an old potato, and I’m more than a little sick,
But I’ve had my fun o’ the Corp’ral’s Guard; I’ve made the cinders fly,
And I’m here in the Clink for a thundering drink and blacking the Corporal’s eye.

        With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
        And a beautiful view of the yard,
    O it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C. B.
        For “drunk and resisting the Guard!”
        Mad drunk and resisting the Guard—
        ’Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
    So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C. B.
        For “drunk and resisting the Guard.”

I started o’ canteen porter, I finished o’ canteen beer,
But a dose o’ gin that a mate slipped in, it was that that brought me here.
’Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt—
But I fell away with the Corp’ral’s stock and the best of the Corp’ral’s shirt.

I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the public road,
And Lord knows where—and I don’t care—my belt and my tunic goed.
They’ll stop my pay, they’ll cut away the stripes I used to wear,
But I left my mark on the Corp’ral’s face, and I think he’ll keep it there!

My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the barrack-yard,
It ain’t that I mind the Ord’ly room—it’s that that cuts so hard.
I’ll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain,
But as soon as I’m in with a mate and gin, I know I’ll do it again!

        With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
        And a beautiful view of the yard,
    Yes, it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C. B.
        For “drunk and resisting the Guard!”
        Mad drunk and resisting the Guard—
        ’Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
    So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C. B.
        For “drunk and resisting the Guard.”
Cells

by Rudyard Kipling, 1919
