COOTIES.
Some people call ’em Totos—
Some people call ’em Lice;
Some people call ’em several things
That really aren’t nice;
But the Soldier calls ’em “Cooties,”
So “Cooties” must suffice.
We’ve met the dear Mosquito—
We’ve met the festive Fly—
It seems to me we’ve seen the Flea
That jumpeth far and high;
Yea, we have known various bugs—
Though not the reason why.
But when you’re in the trenches
And cannot take a bath,
As one canteen of water
Is all one day one hath,
You raise the comely Cooties—
Who raise, in turn, your wrath.
You can’t escape the Cooties
By day nor yet by night.
No G. I. Can alarms them,
Nor other sound of fight.
Not even Gas affects them—
Which doesn’t seem just right.
You may not eat, you may not sleep,
You may not bat an eye:
You may not duck a six-inch shell
That’s singing gaily by,
But that a Cootie, like the Poor,
Is with you—very nigh.
They bite you singly and in squads,
They have a whole parade;
They form a skirmish line and sweep
Across each hill and glade;
But seek their dugouts when you think
Your grip is firmly laid.
It does no good to curse ’em—
They cannot hear or talk.
It does no good to chase ’em—
To still-hunt or to stalk.
The only thing is hand-grenades,
At which, ’tis said, they balk.
Oh Cooties, little Cooties,
You have no sense of shame;
You are not fair, you are not square,
You do not play the game—
But east and west and south and north
Is spread afar your fame.