The Call of the West


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


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