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Poem

Oh the army looked after its own
It really must be said
Except the RSM didn’t really 
Tuck the squaddies up in bed.
Three square meals a day
You could eat your fill
They did try to keep you fit
Just in case you had to kill

And they opened up the cook house 
Every single night for toast and tea
I sometimes went if broke
After all everything was free.
They had the largest toaster in the world 
At least the largest one I had ever seen 
As I was young and not well travelled
It very well just may not have been,

Where you would cook your toast 
Accompanied by the pop pop pop
Of those kamikaze cockroaches
That tried to run across its top.
There were heaps and piles and scatters 
Scorched and charred by the score
No matter how many failed
There were always plenty more.

We’d sweep the toaster top
Brush them on the floor
But just seconds later
There’d be plenty more.
We’d find them in the soup
We’d find them in the custard
Like an invading force 
Permanently mustered.

Sometimes we probably ate them,
They probably added to the taste
When we rushing back on shift
And eating in a haste.
We feared the consequences more 
Of parading for work late
Than any minor adulteration to
The food that we all ate.

When man is gone
For what its worth
Maybe the cockroach will
Inherit this earth.
Oh the army looked after its own
It really must be said
Except the RSM didn’t really 
Tuck the squaddies up in bed

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