We've been reading in the papers,
Where our Censors are cutting capers,
and saying our letters are too long,
And I don't find words to fit it.
When he'll openly admit it,
It's the strain upon his eyes,
That is far too strong.
Now I beg you Mister Censor,
Do not ask for this condenser,
Or you'll find the boys,
Are going off their nuts.
Drinking Arak and going dopey,
Sitting around all day, and "mopey",
'Cos the letters from their sweeties,
Have no flamin' guts.
Now, we don't mind if we're fighting,
As long as folks at home are writing,
So I beg, don't cut our letters down a jot.
Let us have our long epistles,
And we'll cease "wetting our whistles",
And for comforts we contend with what we've got.
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