Part 5 (1/2)

When first I landed in this camp I used to write most every day To all my friends I left behind, And ask them what they had to say About the old town and the girls, Or what they thought about the war; And in return the daily mail It brought me letters by the score.

But now my friends write me and ask What keeps me from replying, And when I answer, ”It's the work,”

Why, they just think I'm lying.

So now the letters I receive Are few and very far between; They're mostly from my family And never any from a queen.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

ARMA FEMINAMQUE

No man would doubt a woman's nerve, We know you're brave enough; You put a man to shame at times, You're tender--and you're tough.

And yet I feel, with all your grit And talk of cave-men stuff, That you're sorter out of place When I'm twistin' up my face, A-thrustin' and a-jabbin' with my gun-knife.

There's some things in this queer old world That's awkward things to see, They can't be tied with ribbon And they can't be served with tea.

They're not the least bit sociable And women--as for me, I wish you'd stay away, While I'm training for the day That I'm goin' to get in action with a gun-knife.

This ain't no country club affair Of smiles and clever skill; There ain't no silver cups around When doughboys train to kill.

It's you or me--and do it quick, A simple murder drill.

So I want no women 'round, When I'm tearin' up the ground, A shadow-pointin' Boches with my gun-knife.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

OUT O' LUCK

If, in spite of hopes and promises, your pay day doesn't come, If the sergeant antedates the call, or Friday's fish is b.u.m, Or the waiter empties soup on you--don't let 'em see you glum.

You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.

If you must deploy your skirmish line with nothing in your dome, Or send supporting picket-lines to countermarch the Somme, The chances are you've guessed it wrong and ”may as well go home.”

You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.

If you drop between the battle-lines and no one finds the place, Or jump into a pit and drive a bay'nit through your face, Or try to stop a ten-inch sh.e.l.l and leave an empty s.p.a.ce.

You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.

[Ill.u.s.tration: S.O.S.]

SHERMAN WAS RIGHT