Vernacular (By Jack Chisholm) Poem by Andrew Wright

Long years ago, a kid at school, I learned the alphabet,
So well ‘twas hammered into me, indeed, I know it yet,
And later on, a growing lad, I learned to be polite,
To say, "No thank you", or "Yes please", "Good morning or good night".

But now that I'm a soldier I've learnt a different tongue,
In language cosmopolitan my modest songs are sung,
My greetings, too, are different civilian ways eschewed,
And judged by former standards I would seem distinctly rude.

My friend is now my "mucker", my "buddy" or my "mate",
If there are three or more of us we're called a "syndicate"
And when we're offered something of which we have our share,
We don't reply "no thank you", We say "Rubitinyourair"

But if there's anything about, which we think we can use,
No matter what, from Stalag cheese to dixies full of booze,
A photo of a lovely lass, or just the Stalag pup,
We don't say, "After you old man", we simply shout "Two up".

My bread has turned to "Rooty" now, my tea is known as "char",
My breakfast slice a "jeely piece", my cup, a "jeely jar",
And late at night when lights are out and I have got my bed down,
I never murmur "Quiet you chaps". I just yell, "Get yer ‘eads down".

Tall stories I call "cagey bars", or simply "bloomin' lies",
When I indulge in forty winks, it's "spinal exercise",
The place I keep my "Junaks", with my meat loaf and my socks,
It was once called a suitcase, but it's now a messing box.

My margarine is "mucking" and my porridge is "burghoo",
My food is known as "Connor" be it biscuit, bread or stew,
A letter now is called a "brief", a parcel is a "packet",
And any circle I'm not in is, "just another racket".

A fat man's "Buster" sure as fate, a thin man's known as "Spindle",
And any Raffle "on the square" is bound to be a "swindle"'
Sick chits are issued every day (though very few to me) ,
While season tickets of the same are known as "PLD".

But in spite of changing words and worlds as seasons come and go,
One phrase alone remains the same, first heard three years ago,
Within, without, around the camp it sounds a hopeful note,
What is it, "Mail", "Parcels up", No, just "Roll on the boat".