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Rudyard Kipling - Tommy
Work rating: Medium

I went into a public-`ouse to get a pint o` beer,
The publican `e up an` sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be`ind the bar they laughed an` giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an` to myself sez I:
    O it`s Tommy this, an` Tommy that, an` "Tommy, go away";
    But it`s "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
    The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
    O it`s "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.
 
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but `adn`t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-`alls,
But when it comes to fightin`, Lord! they`ll shove me in the stalls!
    For it`s Tommy this, an` Tommy that, an` "Tommy, wait outside";
    But it`s "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper`s on the tide,
    The troopship`s on the tide, my boys, the troopship`s on the tide,
    O it`s "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper`s on the tide.
 
Yes, makin` mock o` uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an` they`re starvation cheap;
An` hustlin` drunken soldiers when they`re goin` large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin` in full kit.
    Then it`s Tommy this, an` Tommy that, an` "Tommy, `ow`s yer soul?"
    But it`s "Thin red line of `eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
    The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
    O it`s "Thin red line of `eroes" when the drums begin to roll.
 
We aren`t no thin red `eroes, nor we aren`t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An` if sometimes our conduck isn`t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don`t grow into plaster saints;
    While it`s Tommy this, an` Tommy that, an` "Tommy, fall be`ind",
    But it`s "Please to walk in front, sir", when there`s trouble in the wind,
    There`s trouble in the wind, my boys, there`s trouble in the wind,
    O it`s "Please to walk in front, sir", when there`s trouble in the wind.
 
You talk o` better food for us, an` schools, an` fires, an` all:
We`ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don`t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow`s Uniform is not the soldier-man`s disgrace.
    For it`s Tommy this, an` Tommy that, an` "Chuck him out, the brute!"
    But it`s "Saviour of `is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
    An` it`s Tommy this, an` Tommy that, an` anything you please;
    An` Tommy ain`t a bloomin` fool — you bet that Tommy sees!
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