Oh Monday night`s the night for me!

On happy Mondays after tea.

We canteen helpers drive to ——–

(To name the camp would be too rash,

For Zepps our whereabouts might learn

And bombs come dropping in the urn).

 

We stand and wait behind the bar:

You`ve no idea how smart we

At serving Horlicks, tea and “pop”

To thirsty Tommies, and our shop

Sells cakes, and chocolate and smokes.

We`re up on all the little jokes:

And, asked for coffin nails by wags,

Produce “Wild Woodbines”, well-loved fags.

 

Some linger for a friendly chat,

Some call me “Mother” – Think of that!

And often, at the magic word,

My vision grows alittle blurred –

The crowd in khaki disappears,

I  see them through a mist of years:

I see them in a thousand prams –

A thousand mothers` little lambs…

 

Two simple words are all I say,

I`ve saved them up for many a day –

Just “thank you”, but they mean a lot!

Accept them, for they`re all I`ve got

To tell my gratitude, they come

Straight from the heart. On Monday, some

Five hundred times I say them o`er,

And wish it was five hundred more.

 

And when the camp is wrapped in sleep,

Ere wearily to bed I creep,

Oh Tommy Atkins, brave and true –

I humbly thank my God for you.

 

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