External linkSong of the dying gunner AAT
Oh mother my mouth is full of stars
As cartridges in the tray
My blood is a twin-branched scarlet tree
And it runs all runs away;
Oh cooks to the galley is sounded off
And the lads are down in the mess
But I lie down by the forward gun
With a bullet in my breast.
Don’t send me a parcel at Christmas time
Of socks and nutty and wine
And don’t depend on a long week-end
By the Great Western line.
Farewell Aggie-Weston. The barracks at Guz,
Hang my tiddley suit on the door
I’m sewn up neat in a canvas sheet,
And I shan’t be home no more.