My mind is dry and my words are gone,
Never again to play that beautiful song,
I feel sometimes hollow and numb,
And the old stuff is no longer fun.
I have travelled to places so far away,
The places whose description you can’t say,
The desert stretches off to a distant hill,
Were the enemy waits for our boys to kill.
But it’s not just in those hills we fight,
Also in the river banks green we bite,
Our teeth as sharp as the executioners sword,
Again and again we take the fjord.
Every time we do, more British blood is spilt,
And every time we wade back through the silt,
We ask why we always give it back,
The brass just say “ it’s cos the troops we lack.”
So again and again we go out to claim,
The source of so much blood and pain,
No matter what, I fight with the best,
But the wind there whispers “Vobis Terminus Est.”