(A Sincere Tribute to The Merchant Navy) by Lawrie Webb Yer can't 'elp laughin'—can yer? when you 'ear some people talk About the shortage of the rations through the war. Well, round abaht The Elephant, The New Cut, an' The Walk, There's a sayin' 'It's the poor that 'elps the poor'. We're all used ter poverty— Don't know what's inside The Ritz An' we've always 'ad ter rough it, 'fore we ever 'eard of 'Blitz'. Why, my ole gel can make a banquet of some spuds an' fourpenny bits, Yer can't 'elp laughin' at 'em, can yer, eh? Fancy us complaining abaht eating margarine! an' asking 'Where's the butter an' all that', My ole gel 'ud faint 'cos butter's stuff we've never seen. Unless I backed a winner on the flat! We'd be content with fish an' chips, or p'raps a glass of beer, An' an 'unk of bread an' cheese was good enough. They'd grouse if they was seamen on them British merchant ships, Gawd Bless 'em, even though they may seem tough! They're the blokes who should complain when yer think things over well, They chance their life each minute they're at sea! Dodging all the U Boats, or a Jerry aeroplane, An' bringin' 'ome the grub ter you an' me. You'll never 'ear me grousin', and I've got eleven kids, An' my ole gel can still find time ter smile! I'll admit that things ain't what they was, an' she's worth 'er weight in quids, But, blimey, yer can't miss what you ain't 'ad all the while! It's up to all these moaners ter get this one thing straight, We're at war—an' all of us are in as well! Get yer fingers aht, mate, fore it gets too late. Else we'll all be marchin' dahn the road to 'ell! Ferget abaht yer fancy grub, it's all orf fer a while. An' get a job that's going to pull us through! Come dahn orf yer pedestal, you're in the rank an' file. Can't tell yer plainer—it's all up ter you! An', when this war is over, an' the job is truly done, Let's build a world where class don't 'old no sway. An' don't start getting uppish once the war is won, Else we'll start another new one straight 'way!
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