Alright you lot, lend me your ears. Having quaffed a sufficient number of stouts as well as a full six fingers of Aberfeldy I am now properly adjusted and am moved to recite a classic bit of poetry as regards our calling.

(Amid hoots, whistles, and cheers of encouragement, Lou weaves his way to the middle of the room, climbs upon a table, straightens his tunic, drains yet another stout that is handed up to him, clears his throat, and begins.)

The Flight to Flanders, by Lessel Hutcheon of the RFC.

Does he know the road to Flanders, does he know the criss-cross tracks
With the row of sturdy hangars at the end?
Does he know that shady corner where, the job done, we relax
To the music of the engines round the bend?
It is here that he is coming with his gun and battle 'plane
To the little aerodrome at - well, you know!
To a wooden hut abutting on a quiet country lane,
For he's ordered overseas and he must go.

Has he seen those leagues of trenches, the traverses steep and stark,
High over which the British pilots ride?
Does he know the fear of flying miles to east-ward of his mark
When his only map has vanished over-side?
It is there that he is going, and it takes a deal of doing,
There are many things he really ought to know;
And there isn't time to swot 'em if a Fokker he's pursuing,
For he's ordered overseas and he must go.

Does he know that ruined town, that old --- of renown?
Has he heard the crack of Archie bursting near?
Has he known that ghastly moment when your engine lets you down?
Has he ever had that feeling known as fear?
It's to Flanders he is going with a brand-new aeroplane
To take the place of one that's dropped below,
To fly and fight and photo mid the storms of wind and rain,
For he's ordered overseas and he must go.

Then the hangar door flies open and the engine starts its roar,
And the pilot gives the signal with his hand;
As he rises over England he looks back upon the shore,
For the Lord alone knows where he's going to land.
Now the plane begins to gather speed, completing lap on lap,
Till, after diving down and skimming low,
They're off to shattered Flanders, by the compass and the map -
They were ordered overseas and had to go.

(At this point Lou, who had been getting progressively more wobbly as his recitation went on, loses what little footing he has left and to the roar of applause goes arse-over-tea-kettle backwards into the crowd. He is helped to his feet, propped against the bar, and handed another pint.)

Thank you, thank you, you are gentlemen and scholars each and every one of you. BWOC BWOC BWOC!