To him remarked his fiancée
As he was set to go away
"Whatever peril you are in
Swear you won't resort to gin"
Once he arrived in regions far
He went to visit the bazaar
Against the fearful native din
He thought to take a sip of gin
When he, arrayed in khaki pants
Would go out hunting elephants
The sun would make his head spin
He took a thermos full of gin
As fierce uprisings were put down
Time after time inside the town
He celebrated every win
By toasting all his troops in gin
He mumbled "I'm awfully tired"
Then shortly after he expired
But not before one last tin
Of something that was labelled gin
His fiancée came with a wreath
Where he was laid six feet beneath
Abandoned by his kith and kin
Because he had succumbed to gin