Monday morning, don’t arrive late,
In collar and tie to change for eight,
Lightweights and boots, belt and red vest,
We’re there on parade waiting for the rest,
Up for inspection, account for your troop,
A three-mile sprint, the faces all droop,
“Get in three ranks and by the left dress,”
“Look at your trousers, in need of a press,”
“Why have your boots got no tread on the sole?”
“That’s a 252, and off to the hole.”
Off we set, at a march hares pace,
Anyone would think it’s a bloody race,
Back from the run, not feeling too fine,
Shower and change and pressed covvies for nine,
The men on the tank park, where have they all gone?
On courses, on duty, or buggered off to the sun,
These tanks you know, just fix themselves,
What spares we can get, run off of the shelves.

“You’re late for the conference, scheduled at nine”,
Apologies accepted, “Sort it out next time”,
Although it didn’t really matter, anyway,
It’s been cancelled and changed to another day,
Now Tech’s on the phone, “a 04’s on the line,”
Get myself down there to see if it’s mine,
“You can’t have it mate,” it’s pointed out to me,
“We can’t issue spares without a 1043”.

The board need’s updating, EME’s book as well,
The Squadron Leaders Vehicle State doesn’t tally too well.
The 857’s are taking their toll,
More VOR’s to add to the roll,
Exercise is looming, firing camp too,
As well as a site guard, what will we do?
We can’t get any drivers; they’re all on courses,
Learning the gun or tending the horses,
The CO has ruled, that 3 mornings a week,
Are all that is needed to keep Challenger at its peak,

Records have decided in their infinite wisdom,
To send half the Fitter Section to the United Kingdom,
On 2-1 courses, they’ve sent our men,
And for 6 months, they won’t be seen again,
But this doesn’t matter; we’ll stand the loss,
“We’re all one family here”, or so say’s the boss,
“So get rid of your wrist bands, brassards are in force,”
“You’re REME Staff Sergeants, not Corporals of Horse,”

We’ve now been told, that the G1 demand,
Is LAD responsibility, cos’ Tech’s undermanned,
Never taken into account, that our storemen two,
Are completely up to strength, so G1’s they’ll do!
A counter-order comes down, from the RSM,
“Socks white may now be worn, as long as socks black cover’em!”
The Regiment has decided that it would be quite a blag,
To tell the LAD to get rid of their flag,
No self-identity is needed, as we are all one,
The REME are Guards, Oh isn’t this fun,

As duties increase, with sangars in construction,
It seems the Regiment is hell bent on self-destruction,
The wire the Blues erected, surrounding the camp,
Is just not good enough and needs a revamp,
Says the CO to the RSM, whilst looking over the square,
“Our camp it would seem is getting quite bare,”
“Get the men drilling, just like a true Guard,”
“I can’t” say’s the RSM, “As they’ve all PVR’d.”