The Royal Corps is our name,
And sending signals is our game,
Every conflict that you see,
Is a part of our proud history.

In every camp, in every town,
Is our backyard, our own playground,
We send along The Boss’s orders,
To transmit across the boarders.

If you’re interested but have no clue,
We can always enlighten you,
On where to find that radio station,
And maybe antennas and propagation.

No matter what we’re always training,
Even if it’s always raining,
And if there aren’t any comms,
The angels cannot drop any bombs.

We are first to fly, last to go,
Our proud motto is Certa Cito.
And to end this poem I will shout,
With a press of pressel and a “roger out.”