AN AIRMAN'S FAIRWELL TO KHORMAKSAR

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Land of toil, sweat and strain,

Land of sun and Marfish rain,

Sweat-rash, foot rot, prickly heat,

Aching Hearts and blistering feet.

Fans that hum throughout the night.

 

Land of Scorpions, camels and bugs,

Hashish, Henna and other drugs,

Streets of sorrow, streets of shame

Streets that you could never name,

Clouds of sand and dust that send 

The sanest bods right round the bend.

 

Donkeys, goats and Pyard dogs,

Cut throat thieves and pestering wogs,

Land where children in their teens

Sell souvenirs outside canteens 

Baksheesh, Baksheesh is their cry

For this alone they live and die.

 

Where Tinea Thrives and Gypo gripes 

Where Wogs smoke Hubbly Bubbly pipes,

Where every native black and brown

Awaits on you to go to town.

Obnoxious smells, eternal strife.

Oh for Blighty and the wife.

 

Where tour ex men just sit and wait,

While others dream about the boat,

Their only aim to dodge and skive 

Until their clearance chit arrives.

Their chief delight to laugh and shout.

At some poor Erk that’s just come out.

 

Land of Turbans, galabeah

Qais Tamam Quas Katir

Land of Chai and Mungaria

Land of Chappaties and Alssop’s Beer

Where one can always hear men quake

About the thought of NAAFI break.

 

Oh for Britain's happy life 

Where people never know such strife,

My final chit, I'm going home

Away from there I will never roam

I’m going home and oh so grand 

To see green fields instead of sand.

 

Land of sorrow filth and shame

I’ve seen you once but never again,

I'll leave you now with no regrets

The sights I’ve seen I will never forget 

Native’s heaven, white mans hell this Khormaksar fare thee well!!

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Unknown author. Written circa 1960 when racism and political correctness were not considered