BEEFING
It seems I’m never satisfied
No matter where I go.
My job’s a cinch, my duties soft,
I still find grief and woe.
If I’m stationed in a training camp
Where drills are very light,
I holler to be sent up front
To get into the fight.
When we were in the U. S. A.,
I thought we had no chance,
And I wasn’t really satisfied
Till on my way to France.
We’ve been here now about six months,
And if I had kept track,
I’ll bet I’ve said, a thousand times,
“I wish that I was back.”
And when I was a corporal
I belly-ached around
And thought a better sergeant
Than I’d make could not be found.
I’ve had three stripes for eight long months,
And still I curse my luck,
And threaten that I’ll tear ’em off
And go back to a buck.
For when they try to please me
And dish out first class chow,
And there’s sugar in the coffee,
I’ll holler anyhow.
And if I was sent to Heaven
And up there was doing well,
I wouldn’t, yet, be satisfied
Till I’d got a look at hell!
H. H. Huss, Sgt., Inf.