Before the first shout,
The galley has won the day—
Fresh bread greets the dawn.
Bacon crackles on the grill,
Toast after toast takes its turn.

Scotch oats softly steam,
Salt perhaps, or brown sugar—
Jam if that’s your way.
Every bowl tells its own tale;
The soldier always decides.

Porky bangers sing,
Tea urns steam with quiet pride,
Butter melts with ease.
The scent drifts through the barrack blocks—
No soldier sleeps through this call.

“Breakfast Parade!”
Officers, Seniors and Men,
All answer alike.
Ranks may differ through the day,
But every plate begins the same.

By Paul Baldry