Bandsman Figg
by
Cyril Fletcher
This is the tale of Bandsman Figg 
Whose Army cap was much too big, 
And to his great embarrassment 
Hid half his face where e'er he went, 
Which cramped his style, you'll understand, 
When playing cymbals in the band. 
One day with temper sadly frayed 
Rejoined the band upon parade, 
And with his face in cloth enshrined 
Marched off in dudgeon, three parts blind. 
Now as the band marched up a hill 
This khaki shroud slipped lower still, 
And Figg, each hand in cymbal sling, 
Could not adjust the perishing thing. 
Quite suddenly the band turned right 
And swiftly vanished out of sight, 
And bandsman Figg, sad to relate, 
Toiled on in solitary state, 
His cymbals making so much noise 
He didn't miss the other boys. 
He trudged alone for several miles, 
Down ditches, lanes, and over stiles, 
Till red efface and slightly damp 
He barged into a nudist camp. 
Where angry inmates by the score 
Crowded around him in the raw. 
But all their rude remarks were drowned 
By Figg's earsplitting cymbal sound, 
And those who tried to muscle in 
Retired with bruised and broken skin, 
With smarting ears and swollen beaks,
And cymbal marks upon their cheeks. 
The drama ended suddenly 
When Figg collided with a tree, 
And lurching back on the rebound, 
Fell semi-conscious to the ground. 
He woke to find himself undressed 
Apart from cap and woollen vest, 
And so he took the homeward path, 
With a cymbal held both fore and aft.
The end