I get up in the morning to the sound of martial strain.
The sergeant says: "Go get that scythe and sharpen it again.
The grass has grown six inches, men, while we have been in bed,
So hustle, soldiers, hustle—don't let it get ahead."
The Chief of Staff sits up above and wonders "wot fell?"
The money goes by millions, but the Army is a sell.
We privates, if we dared to, could easy hit the mark,
It's grass that takes up all our time from early dawn to dark.
We all would like to soldier and get prepared for war;
It's what we left our happy homes and joined the Army for.
We'd like to learn our duties from "skirmish drill" to "mass."
But all we learn with Uncle Sam is grass, grass, GRASS!
I hate the sight of anything that has a color green;
My disposition's ruined and I have a swoolen spleen.
And when my time to cash in comes, I pray a gracious God,
That I'll be buried out at sea—not placed beneath the sod.
THE SONG OF THE SHOVEL AND THE PICK
The Sergeant says: "My gun is rusty,
And I guess it must be right.
But you ought to see my pick and shovel;
They are always shining bright."
Chorus:
Farewell, Bunkie, I must leave you,
And leave you mighty quick
For I'll be d——d if I can soldier
With a shovel and a pick.
There is hash that's hot, and hash that's cold;
There's hash that's new and hash that's old;
And Hash that's mixed into skilligbee;
But with me they don't agree.
Chorus: