As a soldier to the canteen After his parade is over, Even so sped Tiadatha Straightway to his club in Pall Mall. And the porter in the hallway, White and very old retainer, Imperturbable as marble, Changeless as a ration biscuit, Gave his usual morning greeting Just as if it were but two days Since he’d seen my Tiadatha, Not two weary years and over. And it seemed to Tiadatha That somehow the porter’s greeting Bridged those weary years of exile, Helped him pick the threads of life up, Feel he’d been away but two days Not two weary years and over. After lunch he doffed his khaki, Dived into a suit of mufti, Felt his leave had really started As he sauntered to St. James’s, Bound for Jermyn Street and Hammam’s. Had a Turkish bath at Hammam’s, Came out feeling clean and happy, Spotless as a British cruiser On a sunny Sunday morning, Fresh as any London pavement After summer rains have washed it, Hair well brushed and very sleeky. Hat at just the proper angle, Suit of grey and gloves of buckskin, Socks as soothing as a moonbeam, And a tie of Dudshire colours. And the sights and smells of London All seemed good to Tiadatha, Every shop he saw allured him, Every face he passed was lovely. So he wandered for a little And inhaled his well-loved London, Let it steal upon his senses As a Chinaman with hashish. “Life again” thought Tiadatha, Rumpelmeyer’s instead of Floca’s, Hammam’s baths instead of Botton’s, And the Club instead of Rest Camps. For three little weeks I’ve got them, Swapped the Skating Rink for Murray’s Swapped the Tour Blanche for the Empire. Swapped the Luxe Hotel for Carlton, And the shops of Rue Egnatia For the Burlington and Bond Street, And old Salonica’s cobbles For the pavement of St. James’s. Then he hied him to his tailor (Who was very pleased to see him), Tried on slacks and tried on tunics And a pair of wondrous breeches, And a pleasant suit of mufti That were ready waiting for him. Then to Mr. Wing he hastened, Mr. Wing of Piccadilly (Who was just as pleased to see him), Rioted in ties and hankies, Shirts and gloves and silk pyjamas, Socks of many shades and colours, Put the whole lot down to Father, Recking little of the future. After that he hailed a taxi, Bade the driver make for Sloane Street And the home of green-eyed Phyllis; Found his heart was beating faster Than a Lewis gun in action As he knocked upon the front door.