Though the ventilation's gusty, and in gobs
the ceiling falls--
Which with oral respiration disagrees--
Though there comes a certain quantity of
seepage from the walls,
There are some I knew in diggings worse
than these.

On my right is Cobber Carkeek. There's a
spring above his head,
And his mattress is a special kind of clay.
He's a most punctilious bloke about the
fashion of his bed,
And he makes it with a shovel every day.

Man is dust. If so, the Cobber has been
puddled up a treat.
On domestic sanitation he's a toff,
For he lights a fire on Sunday, bakes his sur-
face in the heat,
Then he takes a little maul, and cracks it
off.

After hanging out a winter in this Cimmerian
hole
We're forgetting sheets, and baths, and
tidy skins.
In the dark and deadly calm last night they
took us on patrol.