You may talk about your voitures
When you're sitting round the quarters,
But when it comes to getting blessés in,
Take a little tip from me:
Let those heavy motors be,
Pin your faith to Henry F.'s old Hunk o' Tin.
Now I've loafed around the war
Six or seven months or more, ---
It does n't matter when I did begin, ---
But I've seen a car or so,
And the best one that I know
Is that ridiculed old junk heap, Hunk o' Tin.
Give her essence and de l'eau,
Crank her up and let her go.
You back-firin', spark-plug foulin' Hunk o' Tin.

The paint is not so good,
And no doubt you'll find the hood
Will rattle like a boiler shop en route;
The radiator may boil,
And perhaps she's leakin' oil,
Then oftentimes the horn declines to toot.
But when the night is black,
And there's blessés to take back,
And they hardly give you time to take a smoke;
It is mighty good to feel,
When you're sitting at the wheel,
She'll be running when the bigger cars are broke.

Oh, it's Din, Din, Din.
If it happens there's a ditch you've skidded in
Don't be worried, but just shout
Till some poilu boosts you out
And you're glad she's not so heavy, Hunk o' Tin.

After all the wars are past,
And we're taken home at last
To our reward of which the preacher sings,
When these ukelele sharps
Will be strumming golden harps,
And the aviators all have reg'lar wings;
When the Kaiser is in hell
With the furnace drawing well,
Paying for his million different kinds of sin,
If they're running short of coal,
Show me how to reach the hole
And I'll cast a few loads down with Hunk o' Tin.

Yes, Tin, Tin, Tin,
You exasperating puzzle, Hunk o' Tin,
I've abused you and I've flayed you,
But by Henry Ford who made you,
You are better than a Packard, Hunk o' Tin.

C. C. BATTERSHELL, S.S.U. 13

WHENEVER the topics of talk run low,
Whenever a lull in the chatter comes,
When you think there's a dam in the usual flow
Of fruitless bull --- some one succumbs,
And soberly lets this phrase descend,
"When do you think the war will end?"
The men on the steamers that ride the foam;
The camion drivers (or camionnette);
The letters that come from the folks at home;
And even the "Madame" in the buvette :
They carry a burden of this one trend,
"When do you think the war will end?"
You pick up a poilu along the route
Who asks for a lift toward the first line trench,
And he drops you a line fast as he can shoot
That you can't take in with your palsied French,
No need to say you don't comprehend --
It's "When do you think the war will end?"
Every one airily states his views
At length --- till you wish that he could be hung.
Every one answers --- and none refuse
The foolishest question that ever was sprung
And before I forget it, my reader friend,
When do you think the war will end?

LANSING WARREN, S.S.U. 70
December, 1917

AT last the perfect resort has been found,
A place where of war there is no sound,
No talk that's gone on for three years now
Whether "Willy" or "Nicky" started the row
"Kan the Kaiser," "Pas bonne la guerre, "
Or of prices raised on the daily fare ---
Things just go on as they always go,
And he's quite content, is the Esquimo.

No "Belgian Relief" or "Orphan Days"
Have disturbed his peaceful, placid ways;
He never read headlines about the strife
Or saw the Kaiser cartooned in "Life."
He never saw all this "camouflage" sham,
Or read a Hindenburg telegram.
In fact, up there in the Arctic snow,
He's really quite happy, --- the Esquimo.

War news, autocracies, a peace that is just,
Gott, the Kaiser, Bethman-Hollweg's crust,
Cannons, machine guns, the obus's whine,
The rocking-chair patriot's militant line,
Trenches, aeroplanes, "No Man's Land " . . .
None of these things have disturbed his band.
Slothful and soft, in peace they grow,
But they quite enjoy life, do the Esquimaux!

They've never been fooled by the popular craze
Of hunting for news in communiqués.
In conscription and censors they have yet to see
The perfection of world-wide democracy.
They were never inspired, nor had they the chance
To start up an "Esquimaux Ambulance."
Yes, in spite of the ice and snow,
They are not badly off --- the Esquimaux!

ROBERT A. DONALDSON,
S.S.U. 70

THE war has developed a singular art,
The scenery painter's special part;
Concealing, deceiving beneath his paint
Making things look like what they ain't,
Buildings, and wagons, and cannon, too,
He mottles and hides from the searching view
Of the airplanes that hover in white nuages,
That's what the French call "Camouflage"

By similar process my lady dips
Her brush to redden her faded lips;
For this the broker waters his stocks;
Cigars have pictures upon the box;
The politician's broad, black hat,
Most of his speeches, for matter of that;
Sand in the sugar, water in milk,
The plain girl's stockings, made of silk,
Lovers' kisses, and timid looks;
The lawyer's impressive shelf of books,
Comic sheets in the doctor's room,
Compliments carved on a dead-beat's tomb,
All that we say from birth to death,
A spearmint flavor on beery breath,
Pomp and glory, and wealth and fame,
The great reputation of What's-His-Name,
Even the night-bell on the garage,
Every damn bit of it Camouflage!!

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70

The war is for "morals" we often are told,
For honor and justice and right,
It's a " soulful uplifter, " it " brings out the best,
It "leads us from darkness to light."
But all of this talk about morals and such
Is compromised some, you will see,
By that prevalent habit of take it, or nab it,
Which is called by the French, Système " D. "

When up at the front on some duty or other.
And there's nothing to do, and you snooze,
And a real pleasant poilu with manners quite perfect
Drops in and departs with your shoes;
When your essence is stolen, or cooks sell your Pinard
To poilus who want, a cheap spree,
Though perhaps not delighted, you don't get excited;
It's a part of the game, Système " D."

When your tools are all taken, you do not report it,
But tap some one else's se full set;
When the Chef takes your coal, you take some one else's,
(The kitchen's a pretty good bet!)
And so it goes on from the General down,
And adjusts itself quite equally,
This uplift of wartime, this shoplift of no crime,
This nice moral game, Système "D."

R. A. D.,
S.S.U. 70

I'VE taken my Fords as I've found them,
I've jolted and jarred in my time.
I've had my pickings of voitures,
And four of the lot were a crime.
One was a junk heap at Verdun,
And one collapsed on the Aisne;
One was the victim of camouflage,
And one's running yet in Champagne.

I was a young 'un at Verdun.
I picked a pearl to begin.
Gave me gray hairs and a callous,
Cracked me up twice on the shin.
She bucked till I felt like a milkshake.
She had more of a growl than a purr.
And I tinkered away on my back as I lay,
But I learned about voitures from her.

Then we got shifted to Soissons.
Called it the Camion-bazaar.
My temper it hardly did sweeten,
In fitting new parts on that car.
Oil she'd absorb by the pailful,
Animate greasecup she were.
But I felt I was square when I saw her lie there,
And I learned about voitures from her.

Then we got jumped to Jubécourt.
Or I'd been food for the plough.
Got me a shiny new jar-jane,
With a radiatorial brow.
Taught me how futile are footbrakes,
Sort of accordion she were,
For she folded one night, when I plugged at a White,
But I learned about voitures from her.

Then we got hopped to Mont-sans-Nom,
With the shells falling thick round the bean,
Got the car with the mud-guard that John bent
The squarest I ever have seen.
Cylinder-cracked was her trouble,
I finally guessed what it were,
But I couldn't mend such, she was busted too much,
So I got another for her.

And now, as I'm sitting, and dreaming,
And changing the tire on she,
Be warned of your lot, keep the car that you've got,
And never change voitures with me.
............................................Fini.
And never change voitures with me.

SHERMAN L. CONKLIN,
S.S.U. 17

WHEN I hear the high-pitched singing
Of a German shell a-winging
Towards the little spot of ground I'm lying on,
Do I proudly stand up fearless,
Quite confident I'm smearless,
Until the bloomin' shell has come and gone?
Although I've seen some do it,
I'd not! not if I knew it,
For it's nix on the Heroic Stuff for me.

When I hear the motor humming,
Of a German plane a-coming,
For to drop some pills around the town I'm in,
Do I stay beneath the covers,
While overhead "Fritz" hovers,
And merely look around me with a grin?
Well, perhaps there's nothing to it;
Maybe there are some who do it,
But it's nix on the Heroic Stuff for me.

When I have chanced to find a dud
Lying buried in the mud
Of the road I travel over every day,
Do I lose my princely manner,
And pat it rudely with a spanner,
Or pick it up and throw it out the way?
Well, perhaps it's 'cause I'm lazy,
Or maybe I'm not quite crazy,
But --- it's nix on the Heroic Stuff for me.

S. C. DOOLITTLE,
S.S.U. 68

You can travel all along the line, at any poste you please,
In sectors where it's blasted hot or sectors where you freeze,
Where bunks are long or bunks are short, but you'll be sure to choke.
For you'll never find an abri where
The Stove Won't Smoke!

It may be that the wood is wet, or that the flue can't function,
And you labor till you choose your words without the least compunction,
Your eyes are full of blinding tears, your voice a husky croak.
Will there be abris in Heaven where
The Stove Won't Smoke?

S. L. C.,
S.S.U. 17

TIME was, when I honestly longed for the day
That we'd go to the front for some action.
I was then a recruit --- a poor simple galoot,
And was ripe for a row or a raction.
But now --- well, it's different; I've had quite enough
Of this damnable war of perdition, --
I don't fall no more for this patriot stuff: --
All I want is to go on permission!

At first I was keen to be risking my life --
To go over the top and attack;
I was n't dismayed at the thought of a raid
When the most of us would n't come back;
But now when they call for a few volunteers
To go out on a bomb expedition,
I let others respond, while I join in the cheers ---
For the time's getting near to permission!

It was not long ago that I used to have hopes
That I'd get a promotion and such,
But six weeks of trenches --- their filth and their stenches
Ain't made me repine for it much.
Ambition sinks low in the face of war's taunts; ---
Get away with your louzy commission! --
There's only one thing that a soldier man wants: "
"Let me light out'a this" --- on permission!

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70

I'VE been roosting over where
They've a sentence, "C'est la guerre,"
That you hear reiterated o'er and o'er.
It's a cheering little thing,
Hopeful and enspiriting,
And, translated into English, means
"That's war."

When everything you see
Is as rotten as can be,
When life's a shaky gamble or a bore,
You'll derive great consolation
From that patent observation
For it's comforting to know it ---
That it's war.

You tote a gun and pack,
Rain a-trickling down your back,
And you sleep in some damp dug-out on the floor,
And you wake alive with fleas,
Don't get irritated, please,
Just remember that it is n't sport ---
It's war.

You must live on rancid grub,
And they curse you for a dub,
Or rout you out to do some filthy chore,
And you haven't had a bath
For a month --- restrain your wrath,
And repeat that everlasting phrase,
"That's war."

If you're like the cheerful French
When the "Boches" strafe your trench
And you see your comrades slaughtered by the score,
You can get much satisfaction
From that obvious abstraction,
And you'll simply shake your head and say,
"That's war."

For there is no more to tell
When you've found that war is hell.
(I think I've heard that said somewhere before.)
If you're in it, you poor duffer,
Then you'll have to grin and suffer
In the flames of hell --- I'm telling you --
"That's war!"

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70

AROUND our barracks stove at night
We're mighty careless what we say.
If anything's not done up right,
We'd do it better --- by a sight,
If we could only have our way
Around our stove.

All discipline that's ever tried
We're always ready to resent;
We give our officiers a ride
To take the sparkle off their pride --
Or else we cuss the government ---
Around our stove.

Around our stove we make a fuss
About the risky things we've done,
Or pick the flaws in some poor cuss;
Tell what we'd do if it was us ---
Why battles have been lost and won ---
Around our stove!

You'd think a crowd of anarchists
Had gathered, were you passing by,
Or pugilistic pacifists --
And not plain amb'lance motorists;
For, my God, how the bull does fly
Around our stove!

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70

AMERICA is putting forth
All efforts toward the war.
White bread, free lunch, et al., have gone,
Soon drinks will be no more.
We must imitate our Allies,
And so we close the bars,
Light wines and beer are going fast,
And soon they'll stop cigars.

An English-speaking Frenchman o'er
His pinard read the page,
Immediately he flew into
A patriotic rage.
"What stuff! What overwhelming lies!
On France this is a slander.
You should take steps to have suppressed
This German propaganda!"

The Tommy in his billets read
The Daily Mail's short note
About this imitative measure which
Was coming up to vote.
He chuckled o'er the journal long
And then spoke up, " I say,
This really must be only rot, ---
The U.S. going dry!"

The old determined U.S.A.
Will probably win the war
If it will only emulate
The Allies more and more.
But consolation still there'll be
Despite the U.S. dry,
The poilu has his pinard,
And the Tommy has his rye!

R. A. D.,
S.S.U. 70

SAYS the man engaged in business
To the chap who haunts his club,
Oh, you slacker, start-producing,
Whip the Kaiser and his sub."

While the army clerk in Paris,
Adding figures in a chair,
Types his friends, "Come, don't be slackers,
Go enlist, get 'over there.'"

And his former comrade grumbles
As he steers his ambulance:
"Yellow slacker back in Paris,
He's the softest job in France."

Then his car rolls by some cannon
And the gunners all remark,
"What a smug, contented slacker!
Why, his job is just a lark."

And the dirty, frozen poilu,
Slowly plodding from his trench,
Grunts, "Artillery! Oh, what slackers!
Far from mud, grenades, and stench."

While the stalwart shock divisions,
Coming forward to attack,
Sneer, "Those ordinary poilus!
It's a shame the way they slack."

But the curse goes even further;
For the crews that man the tanks
Say, "Compared to us what slackers
Are the men who fill the ranks."

So, although you're quite heroic,
And your deeds are far from tame,
Don't be boastful, just remember,
You're a slacker all the same.

B. C. WOHLFORD,
S.S.U. 70

THERE'S no fit word of any tongue,
There's neither rhyme nor prose,
To express the ennui of the men
When the section's en repos !

It's a fearful kind of lassitude
That takes them in its grasp,
And neither cigarettes nor drink
Will loose that binding clasp.

For a man with blood and willing,
It just makes boil with rage,
And nearly drives him frantic
Like the bars of an iron cage!

His thoughts turn back to his homeland,
To the pleasures he had, and his friends,
And he dreams of a quick returning
From this war which never ends!

When there's work he's well contented,
When there's not, then trouble brews,
And he kicks and frets and fumes about
With a chronic case of blues.

A rumor starts him kicking,
The papers drive him wild,
The officers find him crankier
Than a sick and howling child!

But send him out on the road again
And keep him there for days,
He's a different man than he was before
In a thousand different ways.

He's happy and he's well content,
He whistles while he works.
When it's meal time he is hungry
And at orders never shirks.

To keep your men all happy.
A recipe by all who know,
Just work them hard and often,
And beware when en repos.

R. MORRISON YOUNG,
T.M.U. 184

No, I don't believe
I have grown cynical
Or shell-hardened or
Anything like that.
But it's a fact,
Shells mean absolutely
Nothing to me now.
As I said before,
I am not cynical or war-hardened,
I really can't explain it all,
Unless, yes, perhaps just because
I am comfortably ensconced
In bed with a cold,
Awaiting convalescence
At Nice,
I don't give a damn
Where the shells
Do land.

W. E. POWERS,
S.S.U. 16

THE annoyances of a soldier are supposed, in civil life,
To be the shells, and the bullets, and the sounds of endless strife;
They think he gets quite weary of the trenches and the guns;
And the water and the trench raids, and the sniping of the Huns;
But were truth known, it is n't so --- the front's a peaceful place,
And the soldier's real annoyance is the back home populace!
It's good old men who send him books of firm and helpful hints,
And tracts on keeping well and strong, and how to do up splints;
It's pastors who will pray for him, and send trench Bibles, too,
And silly girls he never met who write him billets-doux;
It's men who've not enlisted who always wish that he,
Should he run across a German, "Would give him hell for me."
The romantic ladies pleading, "Oh, you will be such a dear,
Now get a Boche spiked hat for me, just as a souvenir."
The man who writes, "Be sure and 'Kan the Kaiser' while you're there."
(He sends this warlike message from his office swivel chair!)
It's people safely back at home who always sternly write,
"The country hasn't wakened to the fact we're in the fight!"

They're nothing new, these pesterers of honest soldier folk,
But just the same ones, now transformed, who always will provoke.
Here's just the same old pastor, with his droning parish call,
And the gossiping old neighbor with her stories and her shawl;
The doctor and the lawyer, and the man who wanted war
(Who pleaded his exemption so that he could run his store!).
Here's the meddler and the loafer, the boring family friend,
The silly debutante who chatters nothing, hours on end;
The gusher of the tea room now is hunting souvenirs,
The "Ladies' Temperance Circle" is still down on wines and beers.

All, all are here --- they're mobilized "to help to win the war,"
They'll "do their bit back there at home," though Heaven knows what for!
The soldier has two troublers ---one front of him, one rear---
And the latter's most annoying, say the soldier men out here!

R. A. D.,
S.S.U. 70

A TANGLED mess of shirts and socks,
Underwear, shoe-strings, neckties and stocks,
A bottle of something heaved in by chance,
All wrapped up in a pair of pants,
A U.S. "unie" that would n't fit,
A knitted sweater that came unknit,
Stamps and envelopes, paper and books,
Powder (spilled), some pins and hooks,
A pair of shoes, a cake of soap,
A rubber basin, a coil of rope,
A pack of cards, and some dirty puttees,
One of those doggoned diaries,
Post-cards, a briquet a poilu made,
The stock of a German hand grenade,
A copy of Bethman-Hollweg's speech,
Some stuff in the bottom I couldn't reach,
All of it tumbled in wild confusion,
Bought in a moment of mad delusion;
Junk that isn't worth while to drag ---
The duffle in my duffle bag!

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70

Is this the face that launched a thousand ships?
What wonder, Vessels, that you plunged in upside down,
Or sunk, half-loaded, in your native slips,
Leaving the crew and officers to drown;
Or later, at the taunts of U-boats bold,
To hide from off your prows the blush of shame
Took refuge underneath the waters cold!
Oh Liberty, what crimes are perpetrated in thy name!

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70

WHEN you join the Ambulance
You have visions of a dance
With the obus, mitrailleuse, and aero bomb;
You expect a time exciting,
Being always where there's fighting,
Where the big attack is always on the go;
But before you do your bit,
You will learn the truth of it ---
It's not the front that's deadly,
But repos!

En repos! En repos!
Oh, you're always in a village en repos!
Just evacuation work
Which you'd always rather shirk,
And fatigue and other nuisances well known.
You forever cool your heels
Or join in endless poker deals,
Or "bull" in tireless bull-fests hours on end.
It's a sleepy, deadly life;
You'd much rather have the strife,
Than existence where Dame Rumor
Is the only thing that's rife.
The front is hell, you know,
But you'd always rather go
Toward the trenches, and the star-shells,
Than repos!

When the blessés come in thick,
And you have to take them quick
From the poste to hôpital, and back for more ---
When you get some needed sleep,
And you're in it good and deep,
And a call comes in and out again you go ---
Although you have your fill of it,
You know it's better than to sit
En repos!

En repos! En repos!
Back again to some dead village en repos!
Oh it looks good from the front
When you have to bear the brunt
Of the blessés when they're starting up a show;
When they start a big attack
And the wounded stream on back . . .
It's then you wish for all the rest you ever got.
But when you're in the rear,
And the front is nowhere near,
And the noise of "beaucoup argument"
Is all the noise you hear . . .
Oh it's those times that you know ---
That you'd really rather go
Toward the trenches, and the star-shells,
Than repos!

"WHY were you a private
In our army over there?"
Will surely be a stumper
Of a question on the guerre.
There will be some tall explaining
For quite a few years yet
About your missing Sam Browne --
But eventually they'll forget.
They'll pass over mere buck privates
When they talk about the row,
And we'll all of us be colonels --
Twenty years from now!

You'll some day bite on marriage,
And you'll take you home a bride,
And e'er you're even settled
She'll commence the endless ride:
How did it ever happen
That you let your Sam Browne pass?
If you'd ever had ambition
We would now have social class!"
But don't worry; she'll forget it,
And she'll let up on the row,
And she'll call you "My dear Colonel"---
Twenty years from now!

R. A. D.,
S.S.U. 70

IN a little French street, wandering from the river to the gare,
Is a place they called a "buvette"---what we used to call a bar,
And when your throat's a-parching and the stuff is hard to get,
Come you back, you thirsty soldier, come you back to that buvette!
Come you back to that buvette!
Come you back to "chère Nanette";
Can't you hear the bottles clinking with their wine and Anisette?

In that little old buvette,
Where the best of friends were met,
How I long to be there drinking --- in that little old buvette!

Oh, their cognac, it was yaller, and their Chartreuse it was green,
And their champagne, Montebello --- 't was the best I 've ever seen,
Now I 'm sitting, drinking root beer, soda pop, and lemon juice,
Trying to quench a man-sized thirst, --- but, Oh Lord, it ain't no use!
Blooming beverage made of snow!
Drink her down and let us go!
Plucky lot I cared for Bevo, in those days of long ago.

In that little old buvette,
Where the best of friends were met,
How I long to be there drinking --- in that little old buvette!

There so often in the evenings, in that cheery atmosphere,
Above the din, a voice would call, "Nanette, another beer.
With our feet beneath the table, and our glasses to our lip,
We used to watch the Frenchies, as they'd drink theirs sip by sip.
Oh, the pinard they would sell,
Which would make the Frenchies yell,
While the smoke hung thick and heavy, with its all-pervading smell.

In that little old buvette,
Where the best of friends were met,
How I long to be there drinking --- in that little old buvette!

Oh, I'm sick of wasting money on this blasted temperance stuff .
Why, a man can drink a gallon, and then not have enough.
Tho' I sits me at a fountain, --- pours it down with either hand.
Yes, they talk a lot of drinking but what do they understand!
Soda fountain sissies --- and
Lord, what do they understand!
There's a wetter, better fountain in a freer, distant land.

In that little old buvette,
Where the best of friends were met,
How I long to be there drinking ---in that little old buvette!

Ship me somewhere far from sodas, where the best is like the worst,
Where there ain't no prohibition, and a man can quench a thirst.
For the bottles are a-calling as they stand behind the bar,
In that little street a-winding from the river to the gare.
In that little old buvette,
Stands the doughty "chère Nanette"
And day and night she's pouring out the stuff that's good and wet.

In that little old buvette,
With its wine and Anisette,
Where a man can get his cognac, in that little old buvette.

D. W. S.,
Réserve Mallet

I GOT it from Headquarters,
There is not the slightest doubt
In just one week from Sunday
We will all be mustered out.

We will have a week in Paris,
With a pass for the M.P.'s,
When there'll be no regulations,
And we'll do just what we please.

Then they'll put us on a steamer
And send us back first-class.
We can take back all our luggage,
Guns, and souvenirs, and brass.

Discharge in France will be arranged
For those that wish to stay.
For those returning, good hotels,
Not camps, in U.S.A.

Pay for six months from discharge,
And to keep us in condition
For one year after landing
We're exempt from prohibition.

AN OPTIMIST

I ENLISTED as a private
But I always rather felt
That I should look more snappy
In a leather Sam Browne belt.
So I asked for a commission
As lieutenant in the tanks --
But I changed my mind and just remained
A private in the ranks.

I recently made up my mind
To take a Paris leave,
And spend it in a manner that
I'll leave you to conceive.
But somehow when I started
All my resolution fled,
And I changed my mind about it
And went to Aix instead.

I thought instead of leaving
On an army transport ship,
I'd stay around in Europe
For a sort of pleasure trip.
But I don't know --- of travelling
Perhaps I've had my fill;,
Somehow I guess I'll change my mind:
I don't believe I will.

They say a change in sentiment's
A priv'lege of the great,
So I think some unknown glory
In my future must await.
But I shall not count upon it
For undoubtedly I'll find
That even in this instance
I'll be forced to change my mind.

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70

AU REVOIR, old F. S. uniform
That encased my shape of yore
They've put the kibosh on you,
And you'll be seen no more.

Yet I somehow hate to part with you
For this handsome U.S. coat,
Which is cut so short up in the rear
And bulges at my throat.

I paid a goodly sum for you,
After many efforts blind
To get the full equipment that
They promised when I signed.

So you've done your duty ever since
I signed away my name
As a member of the Army seeking
Thirty dollar Fame.

All winter you did stoutly keep
The bitter cold away,
While the government sent me numbers
And delayed to send the pay.

Yet somehow I can't figure why
You make the Service sore;
You're really quite as handsome as
The one the Captain wore.

Au revoir --- and yet in parting
I'll remember one thing, coat:
While I wore you, you sure gathered
More than one lieutenant's goat!

R. A. D.,
S.S.U. 70

I Am a Sergeant,
First class,
In an ambulance section
That used to be a part of the American Field Service,
But now belongs to the great American Army.
I am a go-between,
And I act as a sandwich
Between the enlisted men and the officer.
Before we enlisted, I had some friends
Or, at least, they acted like friends,
And once in a while, on a rainy day,
They would buy me a drink.
But since l wear a big hat
And a lot of stripes on my sleeves,
Just above the elbow,
I receive the cold shoulder from every one.
When I was a "Sous-Chef "
With the honorary rank of Second Lieutenant,
I could ride in the staff-car,
And have a private room,
And a bed with white sheets and feather pillows.
But when the "Chef" returned from Paris
With a chip on each shoulder
And some excess leather on his belt,
All the glamour wore off,
And we had a Saturday inspection.
I did the rehearsing and the stage setting
And he took the curtain calls.
But I too have opportunities for personal distinction:
They let me call the roll seven times a day,
Cavort in the cool night air
Conducting exercises, and wade through mud at the drills.
When I detail a man to kitchen police,
He feels sure that I do it through spite,
And leaves the skin on my potatoes.
When the barracks are dirty,
The "Lieute" blames me;
And when they are clean, I cannot go near them,
Because there are a lot of bricks in there,
And a brick is a heavy missile,
Which is more blessed to give than to receive.
It should not be inferred from the foregoing,
That I am dissatisfied with my lot.
Oh no! I like my work. . .
And some day, if I live to the required age,
I may come to be an officer myself,
And then I will bully the Sergeant,
First class.

P. A. RIE,
S.S.U. 19

OH, I sit in my tiny voiture,
As I frame up a mute protest
'Gainst the long delay of that happy day
Which will see me moving west.

For I've seen my fill of the war zone,
And I sometimes don't much care
If the world's made free for democracy
If it sees me safe back there.

But there was a time, to my knowledge,
When I loved the life of the road;
Yes, the dugout's wall and the midnight call
With its ghastly, groaning load.

'T was a great, wide life, and a free one,
In a bunch that was crammed with cheer,
Just a careless lot, troubles all forgot,
'T was the life of a volunteer.

They were days when we roamed unmolested,
And on leave went far and wide,
Days of rue Raynouard, and the boulevard
With no grim M. P.'s to chide.

They can take away our cherished rights
And our well-made tailored coats,
Yes, forbid our boots, and decree salutes,
Long with closely fastened throats.

But there's one thing that I still can keep
In spite of the ordinance.
It's the memories --- oh, so dear to me
Of my first great days in France.

B. C. W.,
S.S.U. 70

AH, faded garments of so long ago,
So carelessly cast off and laid away,
I wonder if it pleases you to know
How jealously I look at you to-day?
Your knees are baggy and you're much too small;
You're wrinkled and you're shabby. Heaven knows
You're not a stylish article at all ---
A ragman wouldn't hardly call you clothes.
Most any one would scorn you, --- that may be ---
But, Gosh Almighty, you look good to me!

L. W.,
S.S.U. 70
March, 1919