I feel the hand upon my shoulder
It could not be any colder
Those dreaded words are muttered
Get up mate
It’s your turn for stag

I wriggle out of my maggot
So warm and comfy
No wonder I fell huffy
Standing in the cold air
A look of despair
I rub my eyes and scratch my arse
God this is such a farce

I look at the stag watch
Wondering how many minutes
It has been put forward by
Makes me want to cry
Buggery, fick, bollocks

I am wet and cold
This makes me feel so old
My body aches
And I have the shakes

My mucker lies next to me
He is on the gimpy
Helmet rested on the sights
His eyes are heavy and he starts to snore
A quick punch
He snores no more

Oh great here comes the rain what a pain
A trickle of water starts to seep down the crack in my arse
Yep it really is a farce
And now I have water running down my arse

The dawn is coming and the sun starts to rise
I look out over the land
Now this really is grand
All we need now is a marching band

The 432 engines burst into life
Great plumes of smoke make us choke
I am almost finished stag
Has it really been so bad?
At least I have compo sausages to look forward to
And bread with cam cream hand prints on each slice?
Lovely?