XI(F) Squadron Song
To the tune Marching through Georgia

We come from Legs Eleven, we’re a shower of rotten skates.

We never pay the long due rents, we seldom pay the rates.

But from the Nile to Singapore we’ve left our empty crates,

Lined out in rows and rows and rows.

The beer! the beer! You’ll get no lemons here

The beer! the beer! From Alex to Kashmir.

So bring your lovely barrels out and lay them down right here,

Lay them down in rows and rows and rows.

Our officers are pilots of the very highest class,

Famous from Karachi way up to the
Kohat pass,

They never use their undercarts
(just lob them on the grass)

Lob ’em down in rows and rows and rows.

The kites! The kites! The darling of the flights,

The kites! The kites! The fitters joys and lights,

Just wheel them into ‘servicing‘, we’ll put them all to rights,

And wheel them out in rows and rows
and rows.

Our aircrew they just sit around in deckchairs in the shade,

They seldom do a ’recco’ and they never
do a raid,

But every Friday fortnight when it’s Squadron pay parade,

They’re surging round in rows and rows
and rows.

Air Obs! Air Obs! To get their hard earned bobs,

AGs! AGs! They’re milling round in threes,

Then back to the mess you chaps and sit beneath the trees,

And get blind drunk in rows and rows
and rows.