When you get in your old machine,
To start on a damned O.P.
You cover yourself with tons of clothes,
But they're all of them N.B.G.;
The pilot sits in the engine’s fug,
His body with heat aglow,
But you must stand in the back and cuss
Till the ice on your whiskers stalls the 'bus;
You're only a P.B.O.
A miserable P.B.O.
Chorus:*
At seventeen he’s firing rather badly
At a Hun of a tender blue
At fifteen thou' you see him point out sadly
Some Huns of a different hue
At ten or twelve you find him fighting madly
With six or eight or more;
When he fancies he is past hope,
Fires a long burst as a last hope,
And the Huns go down in ashes on the floor.
We all of us know the case
When the pilot came home alone;
No doubt it was only a slight mistake,
But his attitude's clearly shown;
He shoved his joystick suddenly down
As far as it would go;
“Hullo, you seem to have gone," he said,
"I fear you must be somewhat dead;
But youre merely a P.B.O.
A miserable P.B.O.
At seventeen he’s firing rather badly etc.
When you're doing an escort stunt,
And the Huns get on your tai1,
You start the fight with a careful sight,
And the beggars go down like hail;
Alas, the pilot's jealous scorn is a thing we learn to know;
You may get umpteen Huns in flames,
Don't think they'll believe your claims;
You're only a P.B.O. A miserab1e P.B.O.
At seventeen he's firing rather badly, etc.
I managed to get my leave,
And was trying to drown the past,
When I chanced on a maiden passing fair,
And thought I had clicked at last;
To my joy she said; “The R.F.C.
Are the nicest boys I know";
I said:”And I'm an Observer, dear,”
She said: “There's nothing doing here;
You're merely a P.B.O.,
A miserable P.B.O.
At seventeen he's firing rather badly, etc.
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