I've a little wet home in the trench,Which the rain-storms continually drench; Blue sky overhead, Mud and clay for a bed,And a stone that we use for a bench.Bully beef and hard biscuits we chew;It seems years since we tasted a stew; Shells crackle and scare, But no place can compareWith my little wet home in the trench.
Our friends in the trench o'er the waySeem to know that we've come here to stay; They rush and they shout, But they can't get us out,Though there's no dirty work they don't play.They rushed us a few nights ago,But we don't like intruders, and so Some departed quite sore, Others sleep evermore,Near my little wet home in the trench.
So hurrah for the mud and the clay,It's the road to ."Der Tag."-that's ."The Day.." When we enter Berlin, That big city of sin,Where we'll make the fat Berliner pay,We'll remember the cold, and the frost,When we scour the fat lands of the Bhost; There'll be shed then, I fear Redder stuff than a tearFor my little wet home in the trench.
