In a Philippine paddy he's slept in the rain,
When he's drunk rotten booze that drives you insane,
And he's often court-martialed--yes, over again,
Is my bunkie.

He's been on the booze the whole blooming night,
To mount guard next morning most awfully tight,
Though he's "dressed" like a soldier when given "Guide Right,"
He's my bunkie.

He doesn't know Browning or Ibsen or Keats,
But he knows mighty well when the other man cheats
And he licks him and makes him the laugh of the streets,
Does my bunkie.

He stands by and cheers when I'm having fun,
And when it is over says, "Pretty well done,"
But he takes a large hand if they rush two to one,
For--he's my bunkie.

When Taps has blown and all the troop is asleep,
We nudge each other and gingerly creep,
To where the shadows hang heavy and deep,
I and my bunkie.

And then when the fire-flies flittering roam,
We sit close together out there in the gloam,
And talk about things appertaining to home,
I and my bunkie.