When the war comes, we try to look our best.

We comb our hair and flash a cheery smile,

While digging out our most arresting clothes.

We slap on perfume, rouge or after-shave,

To give a top impression as we queue

And trust such elaborate adornment

Will soften each and every body blow.

 

Of course, such moves are bound to be in vain;

The enemy enjoys our togged-up state

And for a little while may play along,

But in the end we bore them and they turn

To nasty play and punishment, and soon

We lie, stock still and feigning harmlessness,

And hope no one will take too close a look.