One year, two year, three year, four,
Comes a khaki gentleman knocking at the door;
Any little boys at home? Send them out to me,
To train them and brain them in battles yet to be.

Five year, six year, seven year, eight,
Hurry up you little chaps, the captain’s at the gate.
When a little boy is born, feed him, train him, so;
Put him in a cattle pen and wait for him to grow;
When he’s nice and plump and dear, sensible and sweet,
Throw him in the trenches for the grey rats to eat;
Toss him in the cannon’s mouth, cannons fancy best
Tender little boy flesh, that’s easy to digest.

One year, two year, three year, four,
Listen to the Generals singing out for more!
Soon he’ll be a soldier boy, won’t he be a toff,
Pretty little soldier with his head blown off!
Mother rears her family on two pounds a week,
Teaches them to wash themselves, teaches them to speak
Rears them with a hearts love---rears them to be men,
Grinds her fingers to the bone---then, what then?

One year, two year, three year, four,
Comes a khaki gentleman knocking at the door;
Little boys are wanted now very much indeed,
Hear the bugles blowing when the cannons want a feed!
Fowl-food, horse-food, man-food are dear,
Cannon fodder’s always cheap, conscript or volunteer.

(Furnley Maurice)