When I was stationed at Enoggera, as a young platoon sergeant with 9 RAR, a Merino ram was offered, and accepted, as the Battalion mascot. The diggers called him Stan. The brigade RSM of the time was outraged because he viewed our adoption of Stan as a direct and improper play on his surname, which was Lamb. And, of course, he being as bald as a coot the diggers called him Curly. As I recall, Stan was a lively, ill disciplined beast with little respect for the niceties of service life, hence:

When Stan-the-Ram met Curly Lamb a fracas did ensue.
For Curly stood beside the road just outside B.H.Q.;
His Sam Brown belt so shiny, his pace-stick 'neath one arm,
The RSM of our brigade was used to war's alarm.

But Stan, although a raw recruit and barely chewing grass,
Unimpressed by Curly, charged and knocked him on his ****.
"It's contact rear" cried Curly, as he struggled to his feet,
Turned about with arms akimbo his assailant for to meet.

Meanwhile Stan's poor handler looked ready to desert
'cos Stan-the-Ram whilst in his care had Curly eating dirt.
I guess he felt embarrassed, which was natural, wouldn't you?
If involved in such a fracas outside of BHQ.

Your questions are but natural and in answer I can swear,
As these events unfolded I was marching off the square.
Having Just dismissed defaulters I was feeling rather mean
But my despondency was lifted by that ****** glorious scene.

And in the mess that evening rang out laughter clear and loud,
For I'd told them all my story and of Stan we felt quite proud.
There was Sutherland and Massingham, and Peter Cowan too
And Tim Daly called **** Gordon from his room, well, wouldn't you?

And when **** heard my story he poured port into a glass,
And we drank a toast to Stanly putting Curly on his ****.

I once upset a group of RSM's when I told them that foot drill was a waste of time. At the time they were bemoaning the introduction of a new rifle, not because of its small caliber, but because of its cumbersome appearance: 'It is not good to drill with' they said. Thus:

An Opinion Expressed

I was once a soldier smart,
Learned to stamp my feet, the art
Of calling out 'The Time', the thrill
Of perfect, synchronising drill.

We did it in the Sunshine glare
On what was called parade ground square.
It's something that I'll always miss.
Those halcyon days, what perfect bliss

To march along in line abreast,
Our arms swung well up to our chest.
Rhythmic, gravelled, crunching feet,
With Pipes and Drums, and pagan beat.

When marking time we'd raise our knees,
Oh what a jape, oh what a wheeze.
We'd point the toe, dig in the heel
Stay with the marker on the wheel.

Saluting dais comes in sight
So make your dressing, by the right.
Neck to collar and chest out
This is what it's all about.

Look at us performing fleas
Shoulder, order, stand at ease.
Perfect creases, looking good
Just like all good soldiers should.

I was once an RSM.
Not one of us, but one of them.
And if you thought I did not care
Reflect, your moments on the square.
How carefully drilled were you out there?

And did you not feel full of pride
When talking of your job, outside?
And when you thought you should impress,
How careful were you with your dress?

Who do you think it was took care
To make sure that you would, out there,
Function, move, just as we train.
Through any weather or terrain.

To **** or capture, seize and hold - to fight.
Attack, defend, by day, by night?
Not one of us, twas one of them.
That nasty man, the RSM.

A Long time ago, this bloke that I know
Was sentenced - ten days, unit jail.
Unwarranted time for a piddling crime,
But recounted it makes a nice tale.
 
In those days when troubled all marching men doubled.
The escorts, they follow at ease.
But this bloke that I know, who they’d kept on the go,
He thought up this wondrous wheeze.
Whilst lifting his feet as they called out the beat
He thought, why not stay on the run?
If I doubled to there, then went round the square.
I could have a good bit of fun?
 
Well, as fit as can be (an athlete was he),
He takes off at right, scorching pace.
And the escort behind thinks it very unkind
To be caught by surprise at that place;
Which was R.H.Q.; between me and you,
Exactly the place to embarrass
And shake off his back, that cocky “lance-jack,”
The twerp who had thought him to harass.
 
Who, majestically marching, his back stiffly arching,
With arms straight and swinging breast high,
Chin up and chest out - gives an indignant shout
‘Cos the prisoner ignores his loud cry.
 
Which is ‘double, mark time.’ An order quite fine.
Its echo, ‘tis heard round the camp.
But as it resounds our prisoner, he bounds.
The right, rotten, devious scamp.
And the Colonel stared, and the RSM glared
As two running soldiers race past.
One for the “hoot”, and one in pursuit,
Both going very fast.
 
Around the Square just like a hare,
But now the word is out.
Where’er they go, the running pair
Call forth a mighty shout.
Our man they cheer,
Him they jeer,
The Regiment roars its glee.
Winded, lagging, no more bragging
N.A.A.F.I. time for he.
 
Poor Geordie cursed; for this, well versed,
He shouts at prisoners every day.
But now he mutters, now he blusters.
What is he going to say?
In despair, his charge elsewhere,
Sweating, panting, much disheveled;
Approaches doom, cloaked in gloom,
Enters now the dread Guardroom.
 
Where at trestle table
Sits the provost sergeant, grim;
Massive, strong and able,
Frightens all those sent to him.
He’s stalwart for the R.S.M.,
Never talks but yells.
And to help the CO punish men
He throws them in the cells.
 
And stands there Geordie, topmost stair;
Sans prisoner, beret, R.P. sneer;
Sergeant growls: ‘Get in here.’
Then looking out from ‘neath his beetled brow:
‘Corporal, where’s your prisoner….. How?’
 Red faced, G. mutters, then he stutters;
Starts explaining then complaining,
Lost for words, and - so he lingers;
Cell door slams, it’s ‘mind your fingers.’
 
And in the N.A.A.F.I. bar that night
The old and bold they toast the sight
Of what, uniquely, all think best:
It’s Geordie under close arrest.