| Oh my husband’s in Salonika and I wonder if he’s dead
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| I wonder if he knows he has got a kid with a foxy head
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| And when the war is over, what will the slackers do?
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| They’ll be around the soldiers for the loan of a bob or two
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| So right away, so right away
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| So right away, Salonika
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| Right away, my soldier boy
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| And when the war is over, what will the soldiers do?
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| They’ll walk around with a leg or two and the slackers they’ll have two
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| And when the war is over, what will the slackers do?
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| For every Kid in America, in Cork there will be two
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| So right away, so right away
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| So right away, Salonika
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| Right away, my soldier boy
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| Now they taxed their pound of butter and they taxend their ha’penny bun
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| And still with all their taxes they can’t beat the bloody hun
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| They taxed the Coliseum, and they taxed St. Mary’s Hall
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| Why don’t they tax the bobbies wi' their backs against the wall?
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| So right away, so right away
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| So right away, Salonika
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| Right away, my soldier boy
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| For they takes us out to Blarney and they lays us on the Grass
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| Puts us in the familiy way and leaves us on our ass
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| And never marry a soldier, a sailor or a Marine
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| Keep your eyes on the Irish boy, his yellow, white and green
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| So right away, so right away
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| So right away, Salonika
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| Right away, my soldier boy |