"Gunga Din" by Rudyard Kipling (read by Tom O'Bedlam)

Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling You may talk of gin and beer when you're quartered safe out here, and you're sent to panny fights in order to shot it. But when it comes to slaughter, you will do your work on water, and you'll lick the blooming boots of him that's got it. Now in India's sunny clime, where I used to spend me time, a serving of Her Majesty the Queen, of all them blackened crew, the finest man I knew, was our regimental bestie, Gunga Din. He was din, din, din, you're a limping lump of brick dust, Gunga Din. Hi, slippery hithereo, water get it, panny leo, you squidgy-nosed old idle Gunga Din. The uniform he wore was nothing much before, and rather less than half of that behind. For a piece of twisty rag, and a goatskin water bag, was all the field equipment he could find. When the sweating troop train lay, inner-siding through the day, where the heat could make your blooming eyebrows crawl, we shouted, hurry by, till our throats were bricky dry. Then we whopped him, cause he couldn't serve us all. It was din, din, din, you heathen, where the mischief have you been? Do put some gildee in it, or I'll marrow you this minute, if you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din. He would dot and carry on, till the longest day was done, and he didn't seem to know the use of fear. If we charged, or broke, or cut, you could bet your blooming nut, he'd be waiting fifty paces, right flank rear. With his musick on his back, he would skip with our attack. And watch us till the bugles made retire. And for all his dirty hide, he was white, clear white inside, when he went to tend wounded under fire. It was din, din, din, with the bullets kicking dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, you could hear the front ranks shout, hi, ammunition mules and Gunga Din. I shan't forget the night when I dropped behind the fight, with a bullet where my belt-plate should have been. I was choking mad with thirst, and the man who spied me first, was our good old grinning, grunting Gunga Din. He lifted up me head, and he plugged me where I bled, and he gave me half a pint of water, green. It was crawling, and it stunk, but of all the drinks I have drunk, I'm gratefulest to one from Gunga Din. It was din, din, din, here's a beggar with a bullet through his spleen. He's chowing up the ground, and he's kicking all around. For God's sake, get the water, Gunga Din. He carried me away to where a duly lay, and a bullet came and drilled the beggar clean. He put me safe inside, and just before he died. I hope you liked your drink, says Gunga Din. So I'll meet him later on, at the place where he is gone, where it's always double drill and no canteen. He'll be squatting on the coals, giving drinks to poor damn souls, and I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din. Here's din, din, din, you lazarushing leather Gunga Din. Do I have belted you and flayed you by the living God that made you? You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din.