Queen Vicky, bless her soul.

She calls us
To the skirmish.
She calls us
From our leave.
The women say their goodbyes.
Scarce time to gripe
Or greave.


Our kit is packed
right quickly.
Blades all sharp and shine.
And rifles are Martinis
No better friend of mine.
‘Cept shovel flipping
Filth by day
Or carcass
Cold by night.
The two friends give
Us half a chance
In any Empire’s fight.


So where, dear Vicki
Sending?
Arab, Sikh, Natal?
You call the shots
We know the lot.
We’ll march for you
To Hell.
Of that we sing
Right well.
Yes Ma’am.
We’ll fight for
You to Hell.
Hurrah.