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.
