A dud’s a shell that fails to burst—
Whose crater’s microscopic—
And as I’d just sunk down in it,
My Fates were philanthropic—
For had the bally thing gone off—
Instead of sitting jake—
You’d ne’er have found my scattered parts
With a hair-comb or a rake.
You’d ne’er have found your humble slave—
For, sprinkled east and west,
My sad remains would scarce have bulged
The pocket of your vest.
A finger in Benares—
A toe in Timbuctoo—
And on the Mountains of the Moon
A portion of my shoe.
An eye on Kinchinjanga—
To greet the snow-peaked morn;
An ear at Cape Lopatka,
And my dog-tag at the Horn.
S. O. S.
(Service of Supply.)
There’s an S. O. S. behind the Lines
That feeds us shells and hardtack,
And guns and clothes and beans and things,
And heals our wounds and pain.
There’s an S. O. S. across the seas
That knits for us and writes to us,
Buys bonds and whoops it up for us,
And cheers us on again.
There’s an S. O. S. behind the Lines,
We could not do without it:
Just go and ask the Army,
If you’d know the reasons why.
There’s an S. O. S. across the seas,
And if you ever doubt it,
Just go and ask a soldier,
Who will promptly black your eye.