Christmas Day In The Cookhouse
Performer(s): Billy Bennett



'Twas Christmas Day in the cookhouse 
And the place was clean and tidy 
The soldiers were eating their pancakes...
I'm a liar... that was Good Friday

In the oven a turkey was sizzling 
And to make it look posh, I suppose
They fetched the Battalion Barber
To shingle it's parson's nose! 

Potatoes were cooked in their jackets
And carrots in pants - how unique! 
A sheep's head was baked with the eyes in
As it had to see them through the week

At one o'clock 'Dinner Up' sounded
The sight made an old soldier blush
They were dishing out Guinness for nothing
And fifteen got killed in the rush! 

A jazz band played in the mess-room
A fine lot of messers it's true
We told them to go and play Ludo
And they all answered 'Fishcakes' to you!

In came the old Sergeant Major
He'd walked all the way from his billet
His toes were turned in, his chest was turned out
With his head back in case he'd spill it

He wished all the troops 'Merry Xmas' 
Including the poor Orderly Man
Some said 'Good Old Sergeant Major' 
But others said 'San Fairy Arm' 

Then up spoke one ancient warrior
His whiskers a nest for the sparrows
The old man had first joined the army 
When the troops used to use bows and arrows

His grey eyes were flashing with anger
He threw down his pudden' and cursed
'You dare to wish me a Happy New Year
Well, just hear my story first

Ten years ago, as the crow flies
I came here with my darling bride
It was Christmas Day in the Waxworks
So it must be the same outside

We asked for some food, we were starving 
You gave us pease pudden' and pork
My poor wife went to the Infirmary 
With a pain in her Belle of New York

You're the man that stopped bacon from shrinking
By making the cook fry with Lux
And you wound up the cuckoo clock backwards
And now it goes'oo' fore it'cucks'

So thank you, and bless you, and blow you
You just take these curses from me
May your wife give you nothing for dinner
And then warm it up for your tea

Whatever you eat, may it always repeat 
Be it soup, fish, entree, or horse doovers
May blue bottles and flies descend from the skies 
And use your bald head for manoeuvres

May the patent expire on your evening dress shoes
May your Marcel waves all come uncurled
May your flannel shirt shrink up the back of your neck 
And expose your deceit to the world

And now that I've told you my story 
I'll walk to the clink by the gate 
And as for your old Xmas Pudden' 
Stick that - on the next fellow's plate'