Babies Of The Blitz

Poor old London Town is falling down,
Lots of places going up in flames,
But if you’re in the know, and find out where to go,
You’ll find the lovelies very much the same.
We’re babies of the blitz,
Our boudoir’s blown to bits,
We’re living underground,
And over-drawn and on our wits.
By day we’re knitting mufflers,
Or cutting canteen cakes,
But nightfall doesn’t ruffle us,
For we’ve got what it takes.
It’s no longer safe to tarry,
At Café de Paris,
So we’re ladies-in-waiting now,
To do our little bits.
Though we’re in dungarees-es,
To hide our silken knees-es,
Keepin' your flag flying,
We’re the b-b-b-b-babies of the blitz.
Tin hats may hide our coiffures for a while,
And shelter boots conceal our dainty feet,
But 'neath this tough external,
There’s something that’s eternal,
Ask the Air Force
Or the Army
Or the Fleet.
We’re babies of the blitz,
And when their leave permits,
We welcome back the boys,
Who fly the hurricanes and spits.
Whilst bosses of munitions,
And tired businessmen,
Must park their inhibitions,
And make whoopee,
And make whoopee,
And make whoopee,
Now and then.
We’ll lend sophistication,
To well-earned procreation,
We’re «what the doctor ordered»,
After chasing Mecherschmitts.
So long as there is rhythm,
And good meals, and we are with 'em,
They won’t exterminate,
The babies, babies, babies, babies, babies…
Of the Blitz!
We’ll lend sophistication,
To well-earned procreation,
We’re «what the doctor ordered»,
After chasing Mecherschmitts.
So long as there is rhythm,
And good meals, and we are with 'em,
They won’t exterminate,
The babies, babies, babies, babies, babies…
Of the Blitz!