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Up Monash Valley he slipped and strained
Amongst a company of the 4th brigade
To a post filled with the dead and the maimed
On Gallipoli where the legend was made

The rumor had spread far and wide
Of Quinn's Post where a few could survive
Bombs coming in like an evening tide
Where only death, flies, and lice could thrive

A frantic arrival, a mad dash to the trench
Sniper rifle firing a welcoming chant
Unburied bodies and their gut turning stench
A vacant eyed digger and his mumbling chant

"A day in hell doesn't equal
An hour in these trenches
Take me back to the Wazza
With those buxom wenches"

Trenches so close you can hear a Turk cough
No smoking at the front, you'll get us all shot
A noise to the front, jam tin bombs thrown aloft
Fuses too long, the bastards returned the lot.

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