ARMA FEMINAMQUE
No man would doubt a woman's nerve,
We know you're brave enough;
You put a man to shame at times,
You're tender—and you're tough.
And yet I feel, with all your grit
And talk of cave-men stuff,
That you're sorter out of place
When I'm twistin' up my face,
A-thrustin' and a-jabbin' with my gun-knife.
There's some things in this queer old world
That's awkward things to see,
They can't be tied with ribbon
And they can't be served with tea.
They're not the least bit sociable
And women—as for me,
I wish you'd stay away,
While I'm training for the day
That I'm goin' to get in action with a gun-knife.
This ain't no country club affair
Of smiles and clever skill;
There ain't no silver cups around
When doughboys train to kill.
It's you or me—and do it quick,
A simple murder drill.
So I want no women 'round,
When I'm tearin' up the ground,
A shadow-pointin' Boches with my gun-knife.
OUT O' LUCK
If, in spite of hopes and promises, your pay day doesn't come,
If the sergeant antedates the call, or Friday's fish is bum,
Or the waiter empties soup on you—don't let 'em see you glum.
You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.
If you must deploy your skirmish line with nothing in your dome,
Or send supporting picket-lines to countermarch the Somme,
The chances are you've guessed it wrong and "may as well go home."
You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.
If you drop between the battle-lines and no one finds the place,
Or jump into a pit and drive a bay'nit through your face,
Or try to stop a ten-inch shell and leave an empty space.
You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.
