This is as much as I can remember of Billy Bennett's "Christmas day in the cookhouse". When I get home at the weekend I'll look it up in my book of monologues and post the rest. I'll post the details of the book as well.

Steve


It was Christmas day in the cookhouse,
and the place was neat and tidy.
The soldiers were eating their hot-cross buns -
I'm a liar, that was Good Friday!
[…]


At one o'clock "dinner up" sounded;
the sight made an old soldier blush:
They were dishing out Guinness for nothing,
and fifteen got killed in the crush!
Potatoes were cooked in their jackets,
and carrots in pants - how unique!
A sheep's head was cooked with the eyes in,
as it had to see them through the week!


Then in came the old sergeant-major,
he'd walked all the way from his billet;
His chest was turned out, his toes were turned in,
with his head back in case he'd spill it.
He wished all the troops "merry Christmas!",
including the orderly man;
Some said, "Good old sergeant-major!",
and other said "San fairy-ann".


Then up spoke one ancient warrior,
his whiskers a nest for the sparrows -
The old man had first joined the army
when the soldiers had used bows and arrows -
His grey eyes were wildly flashing,
as he threw down his pudding and cursed:
"You dare to wish me 'merry Christmas'?
You just hear my story first.


[…]
It was springtime in the Rockies,
so it must be the same outside.
We asked for some Christmas dinner;
you gave us pease pudding and pork.
My poor wife went to the infirmary
with a pain in her Belle of New York.


You're the man who stopped bacon from shrinking
by making the cook fry in Lux,
And you wound up the cuckoo-clock backwards,
o now it goes 'oo' 'fore it cucks!

So bless you and blast you and b - low you;
you just take these curses from me:
May your wife give you nothing for dinner,
and then warm it up for your tea;
[…]

May whatever you eat forever repeat,
be it fish, flesh or fowl or horse-doovers;
May bluebottles and flies descend from the skies
and use your bald head for manouevres;
And now that I've told you my story,
I'll walk by myself to the gate.
And as for your old Christmas pudden,
stick that - on the next fellow's plate!