To him remarked his fiancée As he was set to go away, “Whatever peril you are in Swear you won’t resort to gin”. Once he arrived in regions far He went to visit the bazaar. Against the fearful native din He thought to take a sip of gin, When he, arrayed in khaki pants, Would go out hunting elephants. The sun would make his head spin, He took a thermos full of gin As fierce uprisings were put down. Time after time inside the town He celebrated every win By toasting all his troops in gin. He mumbled “I’m awfully tired”, Then shortly after he expired, But not before one last tin Of something that was labelled gin. His fiancée came with a wreath Where he was laid six feet beneath, Abandoned by his kith and kin Because he had succumbed to gin.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
