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Out Of Khaki

I slung me khaki suit to-day.   Civilian now front heel to chin   I 'op round on a single shin;

At home in peace I'm bound to stay. 'N' so they've took me duds away.   It 'urt like strippin' off me skin!

I put it on three years ago,   The ole brown rig.

There wasn't then   A prouder chicken in the pen.

Jist twenty turned, me nibs you'd know For how I give me chest a throw,   A man among the best of men.

Me little no the touch I give,   Me chin's ez solid ez a rock,   'N' level with the Town 'All clock,

A five-inch grin across me chiv. “Lor' love us, this is how to live,”   Sez I, 'n' felt I owned the Block.

Glad eyes was ever on the lurk,   'N' little 'earts was thumpin' warm   For nippers trainin' with the swarm To swat ole Kaiser Bill, or work A toe-hold on the heathen Turk.   Fair dink,

I loved the uniform!

I soused mine in the brine that day   When Tophet spilt, 'n' in the roar   Of shells that split the sea 'n' tore Our boats to chips, we broke any Up through the pelt of leaden spray,   'N' got our first real taste of war.

They shot me tunic all to rags;   Then in the perpendic'lar spree   Me trousers wore off to the knee.

The right-abouts of many bags Was ground off in the dust 'n' crags   A-sittin' in Gallipoli.

I wore the khaki on the Somme-   Most time 'twas jist a coat of mud;   I once come through the battle scud Stripped mother-naked by a bomb; 'N' once it' took its color from   Me own 'n' one good cobber's blood.

They cheered the khaki through the street   When we come home with pipers gay,   But now I'm jist a bloke in grey.

Harf-lost, lob-sided, incomplete,

It's nothin' but me spook you'll meet,   Ghost-walkin' in the light o' day.

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Edward Dyson

Edward George Dyson (4 March 1865 – 22 August 1931), or 'Ted' Dyson, was an Australian journalist, poet, playwright and short story writer. He w…

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