There were all sorts of boys that joined the mob;
Some maybe just couldn’t get a worthwhile job.
One lad that I can still, to this day recall;
He was the weirdest new recruit of us all!
In fact his bed space was almost opposite me,
Some of the things he did I was bound to see.
Weekly we were all marched down Laundry Hill
With our dirty stuff to wash; our pillow cases to fill.
But this lad, from somewhere in the West Country,
His clothes were always filthy, colours hard to see.
No matter how he tried he never got his stuff quite clean,
His whites looked grey, and his socks were a mouldy green.
He told me his mum and dad, for a living, they kept some pigs.
From the state of him, they must have shared the same digs.
About every three months he had to burn all his kit.
Nicely in the camp incinerator did his kit-bag fit.
Each time the Instructor ordered him to pack up his clothes,
He’d wink at us, thinking 'this time I’ll get discharged' I suppose.
The three or four times that his kit was incinerated;
Every time he left, his fate by the rest of us, was debated.
After many months of the burning of all his gear
He told us that he thought his Naval end was near.
Finally he was marched up to the entrance gate,
“Step outside, you are discharged, go home mate.”
I've often wondered just what happened to him,
He wasn’t discharged on our Instructor's whim.
Outside the gate he pleaded no money. ”On your bike!
“If you have no money, just use your thumb and hike!”
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