He’s tall, he’s short, fat or thin
but he’s never ever a skiver.
He’s a son of a gun who loves his fun
he’s a hell bent Fifty Fiver.
He carries his loads far above the roads
and the jungle heat and smell,
and he lands “His treat” right at your
feet, like twas ‘Manna’ from heaven fell.
He wears no chute, he don’t give a hoot
there’s a job that’s ‘gotta’ be done.
he’s a ‘Service Corps’ Driver a Fifty Fiver
a happy go lucky son of a gun.
As the Gods all sit on their thrones on
high, drinking their heavenly ‘bevvy’
I’m betting you there’ll be one or two
a wearing a‘Fifty Five’ Brevet.
Look mum, I’m a soldier.