'Twas a bitter, November morning,
With wind, icy hale, and some snow.
And one's fingers too cold to do buttons up.
If you served at Carlisle, you would know.

And I was recruit in the Army,
We were formed up for morning parade.
I thought my World had gone barmy
As I listened to Sergeant’s tirade.

He was going on about rifles,
That working parts had to be clean.
So that we would **** all the enemy.
I thought he were just being mean.

But then he asked for my weapon.
Never call it a gun.
It is cardinal sin in the Army,
Even to say it in fun.

Now, I know I had started to clean it.
But pull-through had, sort of, got stuck.
When corporal had told me to get outside room
To pick up yesterday's muck.

Before breakfast our mornings were bedlam,
And I was always in trouble,
For corporal kept bellowing orders to room,
Wanting everything done at the double.

So, pull-through remained in my rifle.
'T’were there when we fell in for drill.
And when sergeant asked for to look at it
I suddenly felt terribly ill.

He took it and grasped it by muzzle and stock,
There was no need to pull back the slide,
For I had to leave all the working parts out
'Cos. there ‘weren't’ room with pull-through inside.

When sergeant saw this, he just looked at me.
Through me 't’were better it said.
Then suddenly: 'Cheshire', he screamed, 'Who gave me you?'
And: 'Why do I wish you were dead?'

There was nowt I could say back to sergeant,
Upset, as he was, standing there.
Useless explaining my pull-through,
And more than I ever would dare.

I knew it was going to happen.
There was nowt I could say in the snow.
For as sergeant gave back my rifle, he snarled
'To the guard room, double, now go.'

I was warned about joining Army,
I was told that it would not be fun,
But nobody told me the trouble I'd have
With that pull-through stuck in my gun.