The Armadillo

I was taking compass bearings for the Ordinance Survey

On an army training camp on Salisbury plain,

I had packed up my theodolite, was calling it a day,

When I heard a voice that sang a sad refrain:



'Oh, my darling Armadillo,

Let me tell you of my love,

Listen to my Armadillo roundelay;

Be my fellow on my pillow,

Underneath this weeping willow,

Be my darling Armadillo all the day.'



I was somewhat disconcerted by this curious affair,

For a single Armadillo, you will own,

On Salisbury plain, on summer, is comparatively rare,

And a pair of them is practically unknown.



Drawn by that mellow solo,

There I followed on my bike,

To discover what these Armadillo

Lovers would be like:



'Oh, my darling Armadillo,

How delightful it would be,

If for us those silver wedding bells would chime,

Let the orange blossoms billow,

You need only say 'I will'-oh,

Be my darling Armadillo all the time.'



Then I saw them in a hollow, by a yellow muddy bank -

An Armadillo singing ... to an armour-plated tank.

Should I tell him, gaunt and rusting, with the willow tree above,

This - abandoned on manoeuvres - is the object of your love?



I left him to his singing,

Cycled home without a pause,

Never tell a man the truth

About the one that he adores.



On the breeze that follows sunset,

I could hear that sad refrain,

Singing willow, willow, willow down the way;

And I seemed to hear it still, Oh,

Vive L'amore, vive l'Armadillo,

'Be my darling Armadillo all the day.

Be my darling Armadillo all the day.'