by Lawrie Webb Can you imagine me, a whelk stall bloke, a workin' a machine That turns aht bits fer ships, an' guns, an' planes? The workshop where I'm workin' is the biggest one that's been, The bloke who built it must 'ave 'ad some brains. There's turret-lathes, an' capstans, an' mills an' drills as well, An' everyone is workin' at full gear! There's boys and gels, and wimmin, an' unfit blokes like me, Sloggin' ev'ry day, right through the year! Sometimes, when I stop an' look, at all the bits that's done I often think, 'This lot 'ull make a mess!', When our blokes use these shells an' bombs fer slingin' at the 'Uns, 'Itler's population 'ull be less! I 'ate ter think they're made ter kill instead of ploughin' ground, Fer growin' grub ter sell dahn Walworth Road, Still, I serpose we'll 'ave ter make 'em, till this mad world gets sound, An' we've settled up wiv' 'Itler's ruddy load! The larst time that I fought the 'Uns, I served aht there in France There's still a bit of my right 'swinger' there, But, bless yer 'eart, I'll manage, an' I'll show yer 'ow ter darnce, When the 'All Clear' sounds the end of this affair! There's one thing that I'm glad of, I've still got both me 'ands, An, even though I'ave ter use a crutch, I can old me own, an' 'elp to upset 'Itler's plans, An' build a better world fer me an' my ole Dutch! I'm content ter stick it, mate, an' work a full shift too, I only 'ave ter turn an' 'andle on my job, An', each time that I turn it, I say 'That's one from me!', An' the last one?—That'll be 'One fer 'is nob!'
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