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Up Monash Valley he slipped and strained

Amongst a company of the 4th brigade

To a post filled with the dead and the maimed

On Gallipoli where the legend was made

The rumor had spread far and wide

Of Quinn's Post where a few could survive

Bombs coming in like an evening tide

Where only death, flies, and lice could thrive

A frantic arrival, a mad dash to the trench

Sniper rifle firing a welcoming chant

Unburied bodies and their gut turning stench

A vacant eyed digger and his mumbling chant

"A day in hell doesn't equal

An hour in these trenches

Take me back to the Wazza

With those buxom wenches"

Trenches so close you can hear a Turk cough

No smoking at the front, you'll get us all shot

A noise to the front, jam tin bombs thrown aloft

Fuses too long, the bastards returned the lot.