SATURDAY P.M.

When you've had a shave and a shower,
And have picked up all the news;
When you've donned your Sunday Stetson
And your shiny pair of shoes;
When your work for the week is over,
You think that you are through.
You're wrong, my son, you're wrong, my son
There's something more for you.
It's the needle, the needle,
The prophylactic needle.
There's a hungry surgeon waiting
And he's waiting just for you.

Tho' you lasted through the horrors
Of a test in skirmish drill,
And proved yourself a captain
When you bellowed "Fire at will!"
You are very much mistaken
If you think you've finished then;
There is something after luncheon
For all the Plattsburg men.
It's the needle, the needle, etc.

III

Tho' you stood a strict inspection
And your dirty gun got by;
Tho' you'd grease spots on your breeches,
And the Captain winked his eye;
Tho' you ate your fill at dinner,
And enjoyed a Lucky Strike;
There is something at one-thirty
That I know you will not like.
It's the needle, the needle, etc.

Tho' you proved yourself a hero
After three hours in the line,
And when the doctor jabbed you
Just said, "Let's have a shine!"
And smoked a large-sized stogie
And thought that it was fun,
My noble-hearted candidate,
You'd only half begun.
It's the needle, the needle, etc.

When you woke up at twelve-thirty
In a state of some alarm,
To feel a tortured muscle
In the region of your arm;
When you heard the groaning barracks,
You wiped your brow and said:
"Two million more next week-end,
And I guess that I'll be dead."
The needle, the needle,
The prophylactic needle.
You softly damn the surgeon,
And his needle tinged with red.