She’s stuck her crazy derricks up by half a hundred quays, She’s dipped her dingy duster in the spray of all the seas; Her funnels caked with Cape Horn ice and blistered in the sun, She’s moseyed round above a bit, and, poor old ship, she’s done. North seas and south, and they’ve all had a go at her, Hot winds and cold, and they’ve all had a blow at her, And, poor old ship, she’s done! She’s trailed her smudge the whole world round in weather gray and blue, She’s churned a dozen oceans with her bloomin’ nine-knot screw; She’s sampled all the harbor mud from Cardiff to Canton, And she’ll never clear another port, for, poor old ship, she’s gone. Ports up and down, and she’s seen many a score of ’em; Seas high and low, and she won’t sail no more of ’em, For, poor old ship, she’s gone! And chaps that knowed her in her time, ’tween London and Rangoon, In many a sailor’s drinking-place and water-front saloon, Will set their drinks down when they hear her bloomin’ yarn is spun, And say, “I sailed aboard her once, and, poor old ship, she’s done. Many’s the hard word I once used to spend on her, Ah, them was the great days, and now there’s an end on her, Poor old ship, she’s done!” PASSING THE BUCK SERGT. NORMAN E. NYGAARD, 313TH SN. TN. IN THE STARS AND STRIPES, A.E.F., FRANCE The Colonel has a job to do That’s really hard, and puzzling, too; He can’t quite figure what it needs, So hands it out to Major Heeds. And Major Heeds he thinks it o’er, And thinks it o’er and o’er some more, And he can’t make it out at all, So Captain Jones, he takes a fall. The Captain shoves his helmet back, And puts his brains all on the rack; But “D--n” is all that can be said, And then it’s up to First Loot Head. O’ course, he “knows,” but hasn’t time-- The work they shove on him’s a crime; This, and then lots more to boot, So on it goes to the Second Loot. Now Lieutenant Young is just a kid, A baby mouth by an eyebrow hid; A job like that would knock him cold, He hands it down to Top-soak Gold. The Top-soak, ’course, is swamped with work; It never was his plan to shirk, But Sergeant Reed, he’s just the man, He’ll sure do it if any can. But that old sarge must sleep a lot: This biz of overworkin’s rot; He gives the Corp’rul loads of gas, And so that duffer takes a pass. But Corp’ruls don’t know what to do, They’re only built for bossing, too; So Corp’rul Jenks, he says he’s stuck, And hands it on to a common buck. And when the job is finished right, And all the things are clear as light, Why, then, it’s found by all the Fates, The job was done by Private Bates.