I suppose we're a lot of heathens, Don't live on the angel plan, But we're sticking it here in the trenches, And doing the best we can. While preachers over in Canada, Who rave about Kingdom come, Ain't pleased with our ability, And are wanting to stop our rum. Water, they say, would be better. Water! Great Scot! Out here We're up to our knees in water, Do they think we are standing in beer? Oh, it sounds all right from a pulpit, When you sit in a cushioned pew, But try four days in the trenches And see how water will do. They haven't the heart to say "Thank you," For fighting in their behalf; Perhaps they object to our smoking; Perhaps it's a fault to laugh. Some of those coffee-faced blighters I think must be German-bred. It's time they called in a doctor, For it's water they have in the head.
