I was flying through the dockyard in a panic, Fuck the chief was gunna bollock me, It was yesterday he said, that my brain was fuckin dead, And I was the navy's stupidest OD. Well he's gunna kick of now and it really ain't my fault, It was the killick in the barracks whats to blame, The fuckin Pembroke dress patrol, led by Leading Hand arsehole, Is the one who's gunna give the chief his pain. I was coming out of slops all cool and casual, With my shades in place and hands stuck in my pocket, And the twat I didn't see, who was stood there pinging me, Shot across the road to give me a fuckin rocket. You scruffy looking fucker were his first words, You're the type of walking scranbag that I hate, And as his eyes filled up with glee he turned and said to me, "Fall in on the road and march to the main gate". Left right, left right, left right the cunt was screaming, As he marched me down the hill in double time, Then as soon as we arrived, he gave me polish, And clean your fuckin "bats" until they shine. Excuse me hooky these ain't steaming bats I tried to say, But alas he wasn't interested in me, These are flight deck boots I said, it went straight above his head, There are none as blind as those who don't want to see. So the suede refused to shine as I expected, And the Leading stoker now was real irate, He said every fuckin wanker in the dockyard, Would end up cleaning boots at Pembroke gate, Eventually he told me I could fuck off, My patched up shirt made me a fuckin scruffy swine, I was fuckin mega late so I nipped through the dockyard gate, And run like fuckin hell to make up time. Panting hard, with stitch I made it to the flight deck, The chief pounced on me like a fuckin cat, Then he clocks my boots and slowly started trembling, And quietly asks me why I have done that? Expecting an eruption I starts gibbering, telling him I'm innocent and all, But quiet and rather slow he just grins and says I know, Then turns and walks and doesn't say fuck all. I now know god lives down in Chatham, And watches over od's when they stray, Cus the chief went up the barracks on the warpath, Demanding that the killick stoker pay. He had preyed on several fairies in the forenoon, And I was more or less the final straw, And though the names he called me hurt, those remarks about my shirt, The bastard never picked on poor old me no more.