THE SPRINGFIELD CALIBRE FIFTY
WAS wrought of walnut blocks and rolled rod steel,
I was hammered, lathed, and mandrelled, stock and plate,
I was gauged and tested, bayonet to heel,
Then shipped for service, twenty in a crate.
For I was the calibre fifty,
Hi!—dough-boys, you haven't forgot
The click of my tumblers shifty
And the kick of the butt when I shot?