They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—         My boy. They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench, Which means tonight they’ll surely drench These works with shells that burst and stench         (And cloy). They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—         My lad. It breaks with shrill and tinny sound, And quite promiscuously around It showers metal on the ground         (It’s bad). They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—         Recruit. So do not stand and stupid stare Till some comes down and parts your hair, But hunt your dugout and beware         (To boot). They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—         Young man. Which means tonight the gas shells’ thud Will muffled fall like chunks of mud; And th’ blinding, crashing Prince of Blood—         The G. I. Can. They’re shooting shrapnel o’er the trench—         My child. And ere the dawn is turning gray— You mark the very words I say— There’s going to be hell to pay         (High piled). RECIPROCITY. We haven’t been in this large strife     So very long to date, But we have learned our answer to     The Prussian “Hymn of Hate.” And we are feeding him for pap,     As plain as A. B. C, A pretty little ditty known     As “Reciprocity.” The Hun he planned for War, red War,     By ocean, air and land; And he is getting oodles of     The same, to date, in hand. He suddenly sprang poison gas     Upon a valiant foe, And now he’s getting gas and gas,     And more gas, as you know. He found new tricks and wrinkles for     This gory battle game, And now we stoop, no more his dupe,     And beat him at the same. He drowned our women in the sea—     He ravished where he won— But these were little things we couldn’t     Copy from the Hun. His crimson heel lie bade us feel,     His lust and pride and scorn— Till, echoing in our weary breasts     A righteous hate was born. . . . . Beware the patient man in wrath,     The olden proverb saith; And, Spawn of a Kultur nursed in blood—     In blood meet ye your death. TRUCKS. _Lunging-wild, careening trucks_     _Plunging through the rain,_ _Sweeping down the rainbow road_     _To the sunlit plain._ _And echoing back with ponderous roar_     _Their cargo’s wild refrain._ We’re bowling over the roads of France—                 White roads. We’re twenty gray tracks in a long, long line, Twisting and rumbling and feeling fine. And some day we’ll roll to the Watch on the Rhine—                 Joyous loads. But now we’re returning to billets for rest—                 Earned repose. We’ve been in the trenches for many a week. In rain and in wind and in dugouts that leak. Till we all are so hoarse we scarcely can speak.                 Goodness knows. Our clothes they are worn and tattered and torn,                 And mud? My heavens! we have it in our leggings and hair— On breeches and jackets and all that we wear— But we are so happy, we really don’t care—                 ’Tisn’t blood.