Rattle, splutter, crackle, stutter, Lewis and Bren guns all around
Ack-Ack, Bofor, and mortar barrage, help to swell the hellish sound.
Overhead the Japanese warplanes, fill the sky with angry roar.
"Lie down flat, you silly bastard, this is what the world calls war."
Men upon their bellies creeping, through the rubber and the palm,
Parched and hungry, bereft of sleeping, knowing not a moment's calm.
Wading through swamps and marshlands, clothing stiff with mud and gore,
On they go those helpless victims, Sacrificed to the Gods of War.
All around men are lying; Fathers, brothers, husbands, sons
Some are dead and some are dying, victims all of bombs and guns.
Gasping, crying, groaning, moaning, is this nature in the raw?
No, it's simply bloody murder, history books just call it war.
Blackened, bloated, stinking corpses, lie unburied all around.
Ants and flies and loathsome maggots, use them for their breeding grounds.
They have died to save the Empire, don't for God's sake ask who for.
They were simply slain and butchered in this conflict they call war.
While at home in London's club lands, see the ticker tapes flash in,
'Sharp decline United Rubber, down five points Malayan Tin'
"Damn it! 1 shall lose a packet, lucky I've got plenty more.
Waiter, bring a double brandy, what a nuisance is this war."