ALTHOUGH they won't have me in EN.S.A. My figure and voice are immense-No Bren gun they fire Can get any higher Than the top of my lowest cadenza. Tra-la-la, tra-la-la.
The troops all ge out to the bar.
I sing at the Front to the boys-To hear me is one of their joys-:
They go back to fight With a smile of delight—So glad to get out of the noise-a. Tra-la-la, tra-la-lee—They'd rather face Hitler than me.
Im told my andante sforzando Is loved by the Higher Command-o.
I sing nothing naughty But my double forte Is louder than any brass-band-o, Tra-la-la, tra-la-lay—The echoes go on all next day.
I squeal con amore, con gusto, They say that my trills raise the dust-o.
I don mind their wit For I'm doing my bit—And I'll sing till Tm bombed or I bust-o!—Bee in the "Daily Mail."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.