The Armadillo

I was taking compass bearings for the Ordinance Survey
On 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, on 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 blossoms 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 seemed 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.'