He's got a bowl of jellymeat A prolapsed bowel and two left feet His hair is lank and smells of sweat He chews a paper serviette He smells like France before the war And wonders what his balls are for And we should all give thanks For this good man He licks the cleft between his eyes And looks at us with faint surprise We're quite beneath his sweet contempt We're much worse off than even we have dreamt And how we dreamt