Demob Suit

I used to look cool, I used to have flair,
‘Till the M.O.D. cut off all my hair,
I used to jive, with mah Brylcream flashing,
Now I spend my time just-ah square bashing,
I got a rifle to polish but never to shoot,
I’m looking forward to my demob suit.

Now it’s polish those boots, blanco that belt,
Unless you wanna get yer collar felt,
So wash that floor, stir those suds,
Or on Saturday night you’ll be peeling spuds,
Gave my Sarge the two fingered salute,
So I’m still waiting for my demob suit.

Yeah stick it in, twist it, pull it out,
Stick it in, twist it, pull it out,
Stick it in, twist it, pull it out,
‘Cos I’m yer mother now.

Well its quick march here, whitewash rocks,
Wakey bloody wakey, hands on socks,
Double up – eyes right, you horrible man,
Beans for breakfast-mixed with spam,
So mister Burton I’ll get pissed as a newt,
When you fit me up with my demob suit.

I’m standing in line in my shirt and vest,
Quartermasters got a tape on my chest,
Now the jackets too big, shirts too small,
And the trousers don’t hardly fit at all,
Look the coats not a drape or even a zoot,
But I’m the full monty in my demob suit.