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Robert W Service - Funk
Work rating: Low

When your marrer bone seems `oller,
And you`re glad you ain`t no taller,
    And you`re all a-shakin` like you `ad the chills;
When your skin creeps like a pullet`s,
And you`re duckin` all the bullets,
    And you`re green as gorgonzola round the gills;
When your legs seem made of jelly,
And you`re squeamish in the belly,
    And you want to turn about and do a bunk:
For Gawd`s sake, kid, don`t show it!
Don`t let your mateys know it —
    You`re just sufferin` from funk, funk, funk.

Of course there`s no denyin`
That it ain`t so easy tryin`
    To grin and grip your rifle by the butt,
When the `ole world rips asunder,
And you sees yer pal go under,
    As a bunch of shrapnel sprays `im on the nut;
I admit it`s `ard contrivin`
When you `ears the shells arrivin`,
    To discover you`re a bloomin` bit o` spunk;
But, my lad, you`ve got to do it,
And your God will see you through it,
    For wot `E `ates is funk, funk, funk.

So stand up, son; look gritty,
And just `um a lively ditty,
    And only be afraid to be afraid;
Just `old yer rifle steady,
And `ave yer bay`nit ready,
    For that`s the way good soldier-men is made.
And if you `as to die,
As it sometimes `appens, why,
    Far better die a `ero than a skunk;
A-doin` of yer bit,
And so — to `ell with it,
    There ain`t no bloomin` funk, funk, funk.
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