I'm sick of the Chink and the Tartar I'm tired of the Jap and Malay, And far away spots on this Planet Are no place for yours truly to stay I've had enough of undersized chicken And milk that comes out of a can, The East is no place to stick it For this particular man. I'm weary of curry and rice, all Mingled with highly spiced dope, I'm tired of bathing in Lysol And washing with Carbolic Soap. I'm fed up with itchy diseases Mosquitoes, vermin and flies, I'm fed up with tropical breezes And sunshine that dazzles the eyes. Oh Lord for a wind with a tingle An atmosphere zestful and keen, Oh Lord once again there to mingle With crowds who are white folk and clean. To eat without fear of infection To sleep without using a net, And throw away all my collection Of Iodine, Quinine et-cet. To hear all the noise and bustle The hurry and fret of the West, I'd trade all the Orient glamour That damned lying poets suggest. They speak of the East as enthralling There may be a small truth in that, But what is the use of my "stalling" I'm completely "browned off" so that's that. So roll on that glorious morning when someone shall walk up and say, Get your kit bags and junk all together Tomorrow you'll be on your way.