I was taking compass bearings for the Ordinance Survey   On an army training camp on Salisbury plain,   I had packed up my theodolite, was calling it a day,   When I heard a voice that sang a sad refrain:      'Oh, my darling Armadillo,    Let me tell you of my love,   Listen to my Armadillo roundelay;   Be my fellow on my pillow,    Underneath this weeping willow,    Be my darling Armadillo all the day.'      I was somewhat disconcerted by this curious affair,   For a single Armadillo, you will own,   On Salisbury plain, on summer, is comparatively rare,   And a pair of them is practically unknown.      Drawn by that mellow solo,    There I followed on my bike,   To discover what these Armadillo    Lovers would be like:      'Oh, my darling Armadillo,   How delightful it would be,   If for us those silver wedding bells would chime,   Let the orange blossoms billow,   You need only say 'I will'-oh,   Be my darling Armadillo all the time.'      Then I saw them in a hollow, by a yellow muddy bank -   An Armadillo singing ... to an armour-plated tank.   Should I tell him, gaunt and rusting, with the willow tree above,   This - abandoned on manoeuvres - is the object of your love?      I left him to his singing,    Cycled home without a pause,   Never tell a man the truth    About the one that he adores.      On the breeze that follows sunset,    I could hear that sad refrain,   Singing willow, willow, willow down the way;   And I seemed to hear it still, Oh,    Vive L'amore, vive l'Armadillo,   'Be my darling Armadillo all the day.   Be my darling Armadillo all the day.'