O we are merry men from Mars,
An active squad of light hussars,
Schooled in tact and the three big R’s
And how to steer by moon and stars.
Some think we haunt the gay bazaars,
And likewise smoke long black cigars,
But in our brood no Lochinvars
Toast yonder moon and strum guitars.
Our task is a life of jolts and jars
And each one bears his grist of scars—