The Black Dudeen

Humping it here in the dug-out,

Sucking me black dudeen,

I'd like to say in a general way,

There's nothing like Nickyteen;

There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys,

Be it pipes or snipes or cigars;

So be sure that a bloke

Has plenty to smoke,

If you wants him to fight your wars.

When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug,

I begin to think of my baccy plug.

I whittle a fill in my horny palm,

And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram.

I trim the edges, I tamp it down,

I nurse a light with an anxious frown;

I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in,

And all my face is a blissful grin;

And up in a cloud the good smoke goes,

And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows;

In its throat it chuckles a cheery song,

For I likes it hot and I likes it strong.

Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow,

But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow.

There was Micky and me on a night patrol,

Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole;

And sure I thought I was worse than dead

Wi’ them crump-crumps hustlin’ over me head.

Sure I thought‘ twas the dirty spot,

Hammer and tongs till the air was hot.

And mind you, water up to your knees.

And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze.

And if we ventured our noses out

A “typewriter” clattered its pills about.

The field of glory! Well, I do n't think!

I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink.

Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad,

He always was having ill-luck, poor lad.

Says he: “Old chummy, I'm booked right through;

Death and me‘ as a wrongday voo.

But...‘ ave n't you got a pinch of shag?—

I'd sell me perishin’ soul for a fag.”

And there he shivered and cussed his luck,

So I gave him me old black pipe to suck.

And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it

Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit;

Like an infant takes to his mother's breast,

Poor little Micky! he went to rest.

So I had to do it all over again,

Crawling out on that filthy plain.

Through shells and bombs and bullets and all —

Only this time — I do not crawl.

I run like a man wot's missing a train,

Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain.

I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun

Tickle my heels, but I run, I run.

Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame,

( Oh, the packet ai n't issued wot's got me name! )

I run like a man that's no ideer

Of hunting around for a sooveneer.

I run bang into a German chap,

And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map.

And just to show him that I'm his boss,

I gives him a kick on the parados.

And I marches him back with me all serene,

With, TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN.

Sitting here in the trenches

Me heart's a-splittin’ with spleen,

For a parcel o’ lead comes missing me head,

But it smashes me old dudeen.

God blast that red-headed sniper!

I'll give him somethin’ to snipe;

Before the war's through

Just see how I do

That blighter that smashed me pipe.