There's a little corner of heaven
Paradise, or call it what you may,
Where all ex squaddies gather
At the end of every working day;
With cold pints of heavenly ambrosia
Whisky chaser and a spot of lime
Or other relaxing pleasing tincture
That goes with passing away time.
They gather there in their millions;
No squaddie likes to be seen alone
When he's gone for his daily quota
And his essential whinging moan.
They think they've dodged the angels
In their daily little game
Yet they know they are all counted
By number rank and name.
Up there in the heavenly barracks
Under RSM angel's watching eye
They gather in their hordes
And drink and maybe sigh,
And perhaps they are thinking,
As they laze away up there,
Of past moments of old glory
On life's great drill square.
And they toast to the Colours;
Toast the Regiment at large,
And always one final toast;
The Officer in Charge
There's a little corner of Heaven
Paradise, or call it what you may,
Where all ex squaddies gather
At the end of every working day.
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