In the Home Guards was Uncle Herbie.
An old Farmer type. Strong and sturdy.
Orders were given, a tunnel to guard,
Near to the Wickwar Brewery yard.
The men stood watchful and had a fright,
American soldiers appeared, with faces as black as the night.
Disgruntled they were, pubs would not let them in.
The Landlords wary of them due to their colour of Skin.
Now Herbie felt sorry they could not get a drink.
So he scratched his head and began to think.
Slithering down the embankment to the Brewers yard,
He broke in the back door, a naughty Home Guard.
A firkin he grabbed, full of cider,
took it back to the soldiers ‘Get that inside yer’
Such a drink they had never tasted,
They drank it fast and soon became wasted.
Voices grew louder, there was raucous laughter,
They fired their guns in the air not long after.
The shots in the night were heard by the people.
Who called the army, of Germans they were fearful.
On arrival they saw the drunken soldiers,
and looked at the Home Guard the sensible olders.
Herbie said nothing and kept his goodwill.
For the empty firkin he had rolled back down the hill!