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. [Illustration] 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. [Illustration: S.O.S.] SHERMAN WAS RIGHT You may talk about your marching And your stiff, close-order drill; You may cuss out recitations, And of skirmish have your fill; The difficult manoeuvers Which you do most every day May get your goat like everything, And spoil your Plattsburg stay. But for me it's far, far harder Makes me feel more like a prune, To march at strict attention Past the Hostess House at noon. TROOPSHIP CHANTY The sea is green as green-pea soup And half-way down the green-o, A U-boat's lying snug and tight All bellied out with dynamite, And twenty guns between-o! And twenty guns between-o! So scrape yer hatchways clear of brine, And bawl yer jolly song-o. For if she "blows," my lads, why, then We'll blow her back to Hell again, With compliments along-o! With compliments along-o! THOSE RUMORS