There’s mismusters, slop chits, tot time and pay
There’s rising and shining and hitting the hay
There’s thickers and strongers and neaters as well
There’s DQ’s and chokey and the tiller flat cell
There’s aft and there’s for’ard, abeam and abaft
To civvies this cackle seems awfully daft
But to us in the Andrew it doesn’t seem strange
Like the draft chits the Jossman can always arrange
We’re always being seen off and getting green rubs
And chasing up rubbers and looking for subs
And going ashore like a great herd of cattle
And getting filled in and put in the rattle
There’s runs out to Honkers that to Jack are just fine
There’s times when we say “O roll on my nine”
And when nine comes and we’re out on the dole
In old civvy street, where we don’t know a soul
We think of the good times and wish we were back
In bells, silk and lanyard… A real tiddly Jack!
