It may be excellent camouflage
To try to fool a young barrage;
It may not show the bally dirt
So much upon your knees and shirt.
It may be serviceable and such
When you are beating-up the “Dutch;”
But from a calm esthetic point,
The color’s sadly out-of-joint.
A little mud on red or blue
May seem quite prominent to you;
But put the same upon O. D.,
And the whole blame thing looks mud to me.
But then, it matches trenches well,
And things that make you say, Oh Hell
For instance, hikes, inspections, drills,
And busted arms with C. C. pills.
It makes you heave a sigh or two
For the good old days of brass and blue;
But if it’s fit to beat the “Dutch”
I guess it doesn’t matter much.
ARTILLERY REGISTERING.
They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
My boy.
They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench,
Which means tonight they’ll surely drench
These works with shells that burst and stench
(And cloy).
They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
My lad.
It breaks with shrill and tinny sound,
And quite promiscuously around
It showers metal on the ground
(It’s bad).
They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
Recruit.
So do not stand and stupid stare
Till some comes down and parts your hair,
But hunt your dugout and beware
(To boot).
They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—
Young man.
Which means tonight the gas shells’ thud
Will muffled fall like chunks of mud;
And th’ blinding, crashing Prince of Blood—
The G. I. Can.