Private Nottaclue
Cyril Fletcher
Now Private Percy Nottaclue
Stood dreaming in the cookhouse queue
When on his plate came flopping down
A dollop of gritty stuff done brown.
And Percy said, devoid of wit
'Wot is it mate, it niffs a bit?'
The cook bloke sneered with fierce invective
'I'm the server-up not a detective!'
And Percy dreamy like replied
'I couldn't eat that if I tried!'
The orderly sergeant coming round
Said 'Complaining eh? You snivelling hound
You finnicky swipe, you'll eat them bits
This is the army not the Ritz!'
The Orderly Officer with a snub
Said 'Gwacious man, wefusing gwub, 
Dont make me cwoss, be gwateful do,
Thats a wipping wissole with gwavy too!'
The Medical Officer... a crazy geyser
Cried 'Perfectly wholesome... hold your beezer
Then blindfold yourself and scoff it quick,
Allergic to food... it makes me sick!'
The Colonel passing bellowed 'What
Spurn army rations you blistering blot!
A crimson banquet provided free,
Refuse to eat it mutiny!'
You'll tell us why, you perishing prawn
Or be shot like a snivelling twerp at dawn!'
Then Percy cried 'Well shot or bust
Or dead from cruel starvation fust
I can't eat that despite your talk
Cos I've lost me bloomin knife and fork!'
The end