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THE CHRISTMAS PUD
by
Pte. F. St. Bruno

Now the Colonel's brow was sad, and the Colonel's language low,
As darkly glowered he at the cooks, and darkly at the foe.
'The flaming joint's surrounded—the situation tough—
Oh who will race to Diwy Base and fetch a Christmas duff?'

Then up spake three Bold Babblers—and you know what Babblers are.
Craftsmen quaint, with a patron saint named Caesare Borgia,
'Though Jerries grim surround us and make the going tough
We don't give a fock (sic) for old Van Bock .. . we'll fetch a Christmas duff.'

Oh, there was Milligan Murphy, OC beef and spuds,
And Cuthbert Camp, who held the champ for peeling Captain Bloods,
Bagpipe McOatmeal—late of Clyde—roared 'Aye, we'll do oor stoof,
For bide a wee, and we'll gang free and lug yon Christmas doof.'

Milligan Murphy set his course by the light of the Polar Star,
Cuthbert C. stole brazenly a Jerry armoured car.
Thumbing a lift with a Fritz patrol, McOatmeal muttered 'Guid!
Ah've saved a fare and Ah ken where I'll find yon Christmas pud.'

Oh, dawn on Christmas morning (just as the poets think):
A sky of blue or green tints too and a delicate elephant pink,
Yawning graves and a firing squad, their empties cashed for good,
With dauntless mien, but complexion green, Cuthbert and Milligan stood.

Herr Kapitan Humm had ordered rum (last tot for the luckless two)
When a shout of 'Our prize' made him blink his eyes, as Bagpipe hove in view.
Cuthbert and Milligan finished their rum, then swooned with a cook-like thud,
As tied to the side of the pride of Clyde, they spied the Christmas pud.

He raised the duff with a Heilan's screech (and that is hard to beat)
'Der giant mine—Der dumpkof schwein!' Herr Kapitan cried, 'Retreat!'
Over the dunes and far away (good time was made in the rough)
With Humm at their head, the Fritzes fled, from Bagpipe's Christmas duff.

Bunting gay on II Muzzo way and the Colonel's happy tears
As the soldiers stood to greet the pud and YMCA stood beers,
Gaily alight with blazing meth... which we aver is the stuff,
While the brass band played Schubert's Serenade, the cooks bore up the stuff.

Loud may Haw-Haw jeer and rage, Britain will keep the seas,
And the Empire fair need not despair, while we have men like these,
In thirty or forty years from now, when the Blitzkrieg rages rough,
Let us tell in the sand of this desert land, the tale of the Christmas duff.

 
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