All dose English must half deir own vay,
Und so soon as deir foes dey vill shmash,
Like Napoleon dey ship dem avay
Or like Thebaw or Arabi Pash;
So I tells you, mine Kaiser, bevare,
Or you gets yourself soon in a fix,
Saint Helena's old rock is still dere
For de feller dat loses de tricks.
FRITZ GOES FARMING
May, 1918
Mine Katrina,—So long since I write,
You vill tink I am dead maybe yet;
If I never come back from dis fight,
Den some udder old feller you get.
Vell I tells you de reason, mine frau,
Vy already mine letters vill shtop,
Ven John Bull soon finds oudt I can plow
Den he vant me to put in de crop.
In de vorld if dere's not enough veat,
For to make all de beeples some pread,
Den de poor vill get notting to eat,
Und dey all vill go britty soon dead,
So John Bull some potatoes vill sow,
Vere dose rabbits und pheasants haf stayed,
Und de veat, oats und barley vill grow
Vere de tennis und cricket vas blayed.
To pe oudt on de land it seems good,
Vere dose onions and cabbages grow,
Vere de pigs fall ashleep in de mud
Und de ducks in de vater vill go;
But I vork so hard now efry day,
Und I gets so beeg tired py night,
To dose friends dat I luf far avay
Den I hafn't no courage to write.
I shoost vork, und I shleep, und I eat,
So I hafn't much news for to send;
You vould hear of de Sherman redreat,
Vell I hopes dis beeg var vill soon end.
All mine troubles I hardly can't bear,
How is tings in de Faderland now?
If ve lose yet, or vin, I don't care,
So I only get back to mine frau.
Yours ever.
Fritz.