The Armadillo

I was taking compass bearings for the Ordinance Survey
By an army training camp on Salisbury Plain,
I had packed up my theodolite, was calling it a day,
When I heard a voice that sang a sad refrain:

'Oh, my darling Armadillo,
Let me tell you of my love,
Listen to my Armadillo roundelay;
Be my fellow on my pillow,
Underneath this weeping willow,
Be my darling Armadillo all the day.'

I was somewhat disconcerted by this curious affair,
For a single Armadillo, you will own,
On Salisbury Plain, in summer, is comparatively rare,
And a pair of them is practically unknown.

Drawn by that mellow solo,
There I followed on my bike,
To discover what these Armadillo lovers would be like.

'Oh, my darling Armadillo,
How delightful it would be,
If for us those silver wedding bells would chime,
Let the orange blossom billow,
You need only say 'I will' oh,
Be my darling Armadillo all the time.'

Then I saw them in a hollow, by a yellow muddy bank:
An Armadillo singing to an armour-plated tank!

Should I tell him, gaunt and rusting, with the willow tree above,
This - abandoned on manoeuvres - is the object of your love?

I left him to his singing,
Cycled home without a pause,
Never tell a man the truth
About the one that he adores!

On the breeze that follows sunset,
I could hear that sad refrain,
Singing willow, willow, willow down the way;
And I seem to hear it still,
Oh, vive l'amore! Vive l'Armadillo!
'Be my darling Armadillo all the day.
Be my darling Armadillo all the day.'