There was a young lady of Theale
Whose embonpoint verged on surreal
And on Saturday night
There's a rumour she might
Let me and my mates cop a feel.

On an isle far away one man sits
"Tell us why" his hosts cry; and he spits
"Do the worst that you can
I'll remain a free man!"
Two years later they've lost, and he splits.

In the belly's a drum made of steel
Spinning a million revs by the feel
We'll fly low, and he'll drop
With a hippety-hop
And a bang to make Miss Möhne reel

The fortification outside
Is constructed thick, long and wide
But all this, my dear general
May be rendered ephemeral
If the Germans just go round the side

The roof has just let out a groan
There's grim silence when I lift the phone
Wind's howlin' it's snowin'
Rain gauge's overflowin'
TV's dark. I'll get out my trombone

No more roving so late into night,
Though our hearts still love and the moon's bright.
For the soul wears the breast,
Love itself must have rest.
We shall not love or rove by moonlight.