We read in the Camp which we get every week,
And which we incidentally seek,
That the birth rate in Blighty was falling away,
That the stork never visited by night or by day,
Now when we read that our hearts grew sore,
To know that we are idle - Prisoners of War,
So roll on the day when the war is o'er,
For once back in Blighty the birth rate will soar.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem