Soles in suds on the pub floor
as the men all talk of war.
They just heard the radio say
forty bombers on the way.
Drink up, it may be your last.
Enemy approaching fast.
All the family’s underground,
waiting for that siren sound.
But these men prefer to drink
until danger’s on the brink.
War is hell and death is near.
Barkeep, give us one more beer.