Served up to us in trenches,
Our hunger made it good,
But elsewhere—when we got it—
"We ate it, if we could.
And now about the time Josephus
Tells his gobs to call
Port and Starboard, left and right,
We’re ordered, one and all,
To most respectfully address
Our slum as “beef stew”—Gosh,
Methinks the Brains of the Army
Has dished-up awful bosh.
For slum is slum, and your Tummy-tum
Has called it so for aye;
As ‘twas when Thotmes III marched north
To check the Hittites’ sway.
As ‘twas when Cyrus’ doughboys swept
Through the Cilician Gates—
And as ’twill ever be so long
As a weary mess-line waits.
So long as Nations fight and eat—
Though all don’t feed as well—
For the Colonel is Sitting on the World—
While we are S. O. L.
Perhaps, kind friend, our logic may
Strike you as on the bum—
But as we’re Pershing’s slum-hounds,
We’ll call the damn thing “slum”.
SHELL-FIRE.
The Hun he taught us Gas and things—
But the high explosive shell
Was born of the Devil’s mirth
And the reddest forge in Hell.
Now one hits the village church,
And the ancient, wavering wall
And the little pointed tower swing
And stagger and sway and fall.