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.