The same old markets, same old crowd.
The same old marrers, same old me,
But 'er as proud as proud....

The regiment is where it was,
I'm in the same old ninth platoon;
New faces most, and keen becos
They 'ope the thing is ending soon;
I ain't complaining, mind, but still,
When later on some newish bloke
Stops one and laughs, "A blighty, Bill,"
I'll wonder, "Where's the joke?"

Same old trenches, same old view,
Same old rats and just as tame,
Same old dug-outs, nothing new,
Same old smell, the very same,
Same old bodies out in front,
Same old _strafe_ from 2 till 4,
Same old scratching, same old 'unt,
Same old bloody War.

_Ho Lor, it isn't a dream,_
_It's just as it used to be, every bit;_
_Same old whistle and same old bang_
_And me out again to be 'it._
A.A.M.

* * * * *