I must go down to the seas again, for I feel I’d like a sail,
And all I ask is an escort – six ATS or one poor male.
But I’ve searched here, and I’ve searched there and it’s all proved unavailing,
There are no ATS and no males, and it seems “I’ve had my sailing”.

I must go down to the shops again, for I’ve just drawn three weeks pay,
And the tailor says he’s finished my suit at the shop across the way.
And all I ask is a small thing – that my will-power might be stronger,
For “Out of Bounds” is the Tailor’s Shop – “You will go there no longer”

I must go down to Suez again for the call of the Red Sea’s Tide
Is the sort of thing that I can’t resist, and I must be satisfied.
“No Cholers Cert?” says the R.T.O., my protestations scorning,
“I’ll phone the camp and let them know you’re going back this morning”.

I must get out of Fayid again, - away from miles of sand,
To a place where escorts aren’t required – a better brighter land.
Where “Out of Bounds” is meaningless – Oh I shall be in clover,
When sixty-seven group goes home, and the long tour’s over.


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