Now gather 'round closely,
I'll sing this refrain,
Of our life in Morocco
At Sidi Slimane.
There's not enough women
To grace this bare land,
But there's plenty of flea bites,
Of dung heaps and sand.
The heat in the daytime
Will wither your soul,
And through the long evenings
You will shiver with cold.
It's so dirty and sticky
With the heat and the smell,
You'll think you've been buried
And you've gone straight to hell.
Each pilot then swears he
Has been wrongly assigned
And the Air Force commander
Has gone out of his mind.
While he sits there a-sweating,
Wondering why he is here,
The salt from his tear-drops
Makes his whiskey taste queer.
And the boys, you will notice,
Who take it so hard
Are the recalled reservists
And the Air National Guard.
But with all of their whining,
There's one thing that's clear:
Sure it's rough in Morocco,
But it's death in Korea.