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Robert W Service - The Black Dudeen
Work rating: Medium

Humping it here in the dug-out,
    Sucking me black dudeen,
I`d like to say in a general way,
    There`s nothing like Nickyteen;
There`s nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,
    Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;
So be sure that a bloke
Has plenty to smoke,
    If you wants him to fight your wars.

When I`ve eat my fill and my belt is snug,
I begin to think of my baccy plug.
I whittle a fill in my horny palm,
And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.
I trim the edges, I tamp it down,
I nurse a light with an anxious frown;
I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,
And all my face is a blissful grin;
And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,
And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;
In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,
For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.
Oh, it`s good is grub when you`re feeling hollow,
But the best of a meal`s the smoke to follow.

There was Micky and me on a night patrol,
Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;
And sure I thought I was worse than dead
Wi` them crump-crumps hustlin` over me head.
Sure I thought `twas the dirty spot,
Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.
And mind you, water up to your knees.
And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.
And if we ventured our noses out
A "typewriter" clattered its pills about.
The Field of Glory! Well, I don`t think!
I`d sooner be safe and snug in clink.

Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,
He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.
Says he: "Old chummy, I`m booked right through;
Death and me `as a wrongday voo.
But . . . `aven`t you got a pinch of shag? —
I`d sell me perishin` soul for a fag."
And there he shivered and cussed his luck,
So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.
And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it
Like a babby takes to his mammy`s tit;
Like an infant takes to his mother`s breast,
Poor little Micky! he went to rest.

But the dawn was near, though the night was black,
So I left him there and I started back.
And I laughed as the silly old bullets came,
For the bullet ain`t made wot`s got me name.
Yet some of `em buzzed onhealthily near,
And one little blighter just chipped me ear.
But there! I got to the trench all right,
When sudden I jumped wi` a start o` fright,
And a word that doesn`t look well in type:
I`d clean forgotten  me old clay pipe.

So I had to do it all over again,
Crawling out on that filthy plain.
Through shells and bombs and bullets and all —
Only this time — I do not crawl.
I run like a man wot`s missing a train,
Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.
I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun
Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.
Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,
(Oh, the packet ain`t issued wot`s got me name!)
I run like a man that`s no ideer
Of hunting around for a sooveneer.
I run bang into a German chap,
And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.
And just to show him that I`m his boss,
I gives him a kick on the parados.
And I marches him back with me all serene,
Wiv, tucked in me grup, me old dudeen.

Sitting here in the trenches
    Me heart`s a-splittin` with spleen,
For a parcel o` lead comes missing me head,
    But it smashes me old dudeen.
God blast that red-headed sniper!
    I`ll give him somethin` to snipe;
Before the war`s through
Just see how I do
    That blighter that smashed me pipe.
Source
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