Poems about the Army Apprentices School, Harrogate
(Attributed to Terry Corbett, intake 54B, with some subsequent editing)

Room Inspection
Saturday at eight o’clock the CO will inspect.
It’s Major ‘Knocker’ Walker, will he pass it or reject?
A pair of white gloves on his hands, a twisted walking stick,
It’s said he doesn’t miss a thing, and we’re all worried sick.

Walking slowly through the room, inspecting every lad.
You stand there rigid on the spot, he passes, not so bad,
Then stops and turns and points his stick towards your bed headrails,
His eyes half-closed, he makes no sound, the Sergeant Major pales.

You look around and there IT is, you forgot it after cleaning,
A grubby crumpled duster dangles from the rail agleaming.
A sharp intake of breath is heard, he asks with voice so mean
“You fly the Yellow Jack, A/T, are you really in quarantine?”

“What’s your name? You’ve lost it” the Sergeant Major screams,
His mouth one inch from your left ear, your skull pops at the seams.
Two hundred decibels of noise in one ear and out the other.
You rock back on your heals and think “What was his fricking mother?”

Then Knocker’s stick is raised aloft and taps the lampshade green,
A minute puff of dust descends upon the inspection team.
His hands, encased in gloves so white, probe the roofing beams
And once again he finds more dust has soiled those candid seams.

His retinue is quailing now, there is no more inspection.
He hisses out his final words, an obvious rejection,
“This room’s not clean as I have seen a pigsty not so dirty.
After Church Parade tomorrow morn, new inspection eleven-thirty!”

Sergeant Bowsley does his nut, shouts and flaps about.
We’re ‘gated’ for the weekend now and no-one can go out.
He throws our kit around the room and just draws breath to swear,
“All outside you bloody lot, you’ll be ‘doubled’ round the square!”

With thanks to  Trevor "Bill" Powell for this contribution.