Their Maxims are murderous guns!
When from out the towns and villages, and out the jungle, too,
We have chased the Filipinos on the run,
Toward the river swamps they foot it—towards the swamps we can't go through—
And we're doubtful if we've lost the fight or won;
Then when all are safe in hiding in the slimy mud and reeds,
From the river 'cross the swamp we hear a sound;
It's the sputter and the rattle of the automatic feeds
On the tin-protected cruisers—how they pound—
(Sweet sound!)