May, 1917
Those fellows down in parliament
Have kicked up such a fuss,
That now we seem election bent
To clean up all the muss.
The Grits are sharpening their swords
To give the Tories fits,
While they, with scorching bitter words
Denounce the faithless Grits.
All out of doors is fresh and green,
But no more green than we
Who help to run the Grit machine,
Or bow the Tory knee.
We hear the strident party call
In words no one believes;
The Liberals are traitors all,
The Tories all are thieves.
The birds are singing in the trees,
Old Summer's back at last,
The lilacs scent the morning breeze,
The crops are growing fast;
Why should we leave these peaceful scenes,
And don our vests and coats,
To hear those chaps who spilled the beans
Slangwhanging for our votes?
If we give heed to every tale
Told when the campaign's hot,
The Tories all should be in jail,
The Grits should all be shot.
Let's raise more chickens, calves and shoats,
The politicians shun,
Let's grow more beans and wheat and oats,
And help defeat the Hun.
WHEN THE GAME ISN'T FAIR
As we struggle up life's hillside
Where the road is hard and long,
Weak, discouraged, tired, lonely,
And everything gone wrong.
When we see some men refusing
Their allotted load to bear,
While their brother's back is breaking,
Then we know the game's not fair.
When we see some men grow wealthy,
While their brothers die in France,
We rebel at the injustice,
And demand an even chance;
When we see some children hungry,
With no decent clothes to wear,
And some other stuffed and pampered,
Then we know the game's not fair.
When we have to pay high taxes
On our little wooden shack,
Though the mortgage isn't settled
And the interest is back,
When the rich man's stately mansion,
Doesn't pay its proper share,
And he lies about his income,
Then we know the game's not fair.
When we read in all the papers
How our boys are strafing Fritz,
Throwing bombs into his trenches
For to blow him all to bits,
When we think of him that started
This vile war, then we declare
If the Kaiser goes unpunished
We shall know the game's not fair.
HEINIE'S HOLLER
Britty soon now fife years vill pe done
Since ve march into Belgium von day,
But since den some beeg rifers have run
Troo de pridges, I tink all de vay,
Den already de tings seemed so blain,
Ven ve shtart oudt to lick de whole vorld
Ve vas sure dat us Shermans vould reign
Shoost verefer our flag vas unfurled.
For to see dat some tings can't pe done
All dose Junker man's heads vas too tick,
Und, inshtead of a blace in de sun,
Ve haf got, vot you call, armyshtick.
Vot dot armyshtick baper's aboudt
I can't get troo dis headpiece of mine
But dose fellers dot von wrote it oudt,
Und us fellers dat lost had to sign.
Shoost so soon vas dat Armyshtick made
Den dose allies dey run de whole show,
For already deir plans vas all laid
Ven ve back into Shermany go.
Dere vas fellers from England und France,
Und Yankees, Italians und Japs,
Mit some hoboes dat all get a chance
From some blaces not marked on de maps.
For six months now dey talk und dey shmoke,
Mit no Shermans at all in de game
Und dey tink up von pully goot shoke,
Den dey tell us to write down our name.
Dey vould take all our money und ships,
Und dose blace in de sun dat ve got.
But we ain't handing oudt no free trips,
Und won't sign no beace dreaty like dot.
WHAT WE WON
Was it for this, I want to know,
We saw our boys to Flanders go;
For this that Belgium suffered so,
That France withstood the ruthless foe,
And said "No further shalt thou go,"
That Serbia was plunged in woe,
And women wept along the Po;
That Poles were herded to and fro,
And Anzacs died at Gallipo;
That Britain let her plans all go,
Laid bare her breast, and took the blow,
And held the seas 'neath sun and snow
Danger above and death below;
That Uncle Sam, though rather slow
To scrap the doctrine of Monroe,
Got busy at the final show?
For years of blood and tears, although
We boast the Kaiser's overthrow,
The net results seem these, I trow,
That profiteers pile up the dough,
And gather where they did not sow,
That scythes of death fresh harvests mow,
Where Bolshevists fierce whiskers grow,
And no Hun yet has eaten crow;
That Wild Sinn Feiners, fallen low,
Plan proud Britannia's overthrow,
Save these the world can little show,
But wooden crosses, row on row.
In Flanders fields, where poppies blow.