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Version One
From the South came a gang
to the Trentham Shoot
all keen as hell for a share
in the loot.
They were hot and tired-
had a thirst as well,
just the driest gang
this side of hell.
We'd just got settled in O.K.,
Things running nice and sweetly,
when Camperdown turned 21 -
that tore things up completely.
I've seen a mad-house once or twice,
In barracks overseas
But that "chivoo" of Camperdown's
would beat 'em all with ease.
A timid few within the hut,
were seen to disappear,
whilst gamer ones peeped from afar
and watched us sink the beer.
We had a song or two, of course,
the yarns grew rude and hot,
Veint's "Mrs Murphy and her dog"
near capped the bloody lot.
And then the gin began to work,
Cliff White fell out of bed.
The "coloured gent" near broke his neck,
while standing on his head.
The pace grew fast and furious,
that dorm sure was a wreck,
I've never laughed so flamin' much,
Since Uncle broke his neck.
Bowman and the Ardmore Kid,
fought on the dusty floor,
and Finlayson lay on his back
And held his glass for more.
The fuel supply was bloody crook,
in fact, for wood we're sunk
So Snowie Adams set to work
And burned up Rodger's bunk.
Now Hornby lands upon the scene
And tries to lend a hand,
and if bullswool was music
well, he'd be a bloody band.
The health inspector came along,
we primed him up with gin,
in fact, he had so flamin' much
that his own damn health packed in.
At last the big "do's" finished up,
Snow's had his tender goodnight kiss
a footstep sounds in the darkened dorm.
It's just Bill Veint on his way to p..s.
In next to no time the daylight's here,
Oh, why did I drink all that rotten beer,
I'm crook as hell - sore head to boot
As I wander off down to the Service Shoot.
J.C.M.
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