I'm sick of the Chink and the Tartar
I'm sick of the Jap and Malay
And far away spots on the maps are
No place for yours truly to stay
I've had enough undersized chicken
And milk that comes from a can
The East is no region to stay in
For this one particular man
I'm weary of curry and rice
All mingled with highly spiced dope
I'm weary of bathing in Lysol
And washing with carbolic soap
I'm tired of skin itch diseases
Mosquitoes and 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 to mingle
With crowds that are white and clean
To eat without fear of infection
To sleep without using a net
I'll throw away all my collection
Of iodine, Quinine, etc
To hear all the noise and the clamour
The hurry and fret of the west
I'll trade all the Orient's glamour
Those damn lying poets suggest
They sing of the East so enthralling
That's why I started to roam
But I hear the occident calling
Oh Lord but I want to go home
