National Service, was the time when
They took young boys, and turned them into men.
Thrown together, every colour, type and kind
Individuals reduced to a single pacing mind
Square bashing and the terror
When we dreaded the slightest error
For though your pride may take a fall
The whole billet as one, took it all.
Stones painted daily from black to white
Breaking down rifles, learning to fight
Ironing toecaps, circles of polish and spit
Starting so flabby, but finishing fit.
Haircuts so short, nothing could save you.
Would the day ever come, when they might praise you?
Beds up-ended with little attention
Not a blemish was missed on kit inspection.
So many memories still remain
Drill instructors quotes in language profane
Yet even now, nearly 50 years on
We straighten our shoulders and think of the fun
Never forgetting the number to say
When you saluted for a pittance of pay.
A roof overhead and food in our belly
Would we have missed it – Not on your Nellie
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem