Many, many years ago on an island and a place not so far from here,
A group of boys, in mens uniforms did cross the marshes with no fear,
Stepping heavy footed,
Unable to lightly move,
Weapons and packs,
Six foot pickets, wire,
The wove their way,
Bogged down by the mission, the weather, knee deep watery holes,
They exercised for ten clicks to begin the exercise, which took it's toll,
Their camp was set,
Then the weather moved in,
The rain began, the rain began, the rain began, and the rivulets ran,
down the hill, through the camp, no dry wood only dry humour, "to a man
we won't go thirsty",
The next day it rained some more and still more until the marshes over-flowed, found it's
path with least resistance,
everywhere they slept and sat,
every step made a splish-splat,
the rain did pound down to the ground,
yet they soldiered on and on, just like the rain.