Oh, it’s often I’m late at formations, And it’s taps I completely disdain. And my bunk, it brings tears from the captain, And the cooties are at me again. But when there’s a piece in the mire, With her muzzle just rimming the muck, Then it’s hustle for me and my beauties— If they don’t they are S.O. of luck. And when there’s some route that’s receiving Its tender regards from the Huns, Then we gallop hell bent for election To our duty o’ feeding the guns. The gas, the H.E., and the shrapnel, They brighten our path as they burst, But they’ve never got me or my chevals— They’ll have to catch up to us first. I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer, And my ears they are covered with hair, And I frequent inhabit the guardhouse, I’ll be “priv” until “fini la guerre.” But my hosses, they neigh when I’m comin’, An’ my sarge knows how hefty they drag, An’ the cap lent me ten francs this mornin’— Here’s to him an’ to me an’ the flag! F. M. H. D., F.A. SONG OF THE CENSOR MAN Oh, I am the man with a mightier pen Than the chisel the lawgiver knew; The snip of my shears is more dreaded of men Than the sword that Napoleon drew. I foil the young man with a nose for the news, And I stifle the first feeble note Of the soldier who ventures to air any views That he never was paid to promote. Oh, it’s snip, snip, snip is the rhythmic swing Of my shears in the morning light, And clip, clip, clip is the raucous ring Of their voice in the starry night. I may strike from the calendar all of its dates, And I rob every town of its name, And rarely a letter but sadly relates The tale of my terrible fame. Oh, I know all the secrets that ever were told, Till every unfortunate prays That the book of omnipotent knowledge I hold May be sealed to the end of my days. On each written syllable, proudly I state, I pronounce benediction or ban; For I’m the personification of Fate— The redoubtable Censor man! JOHN FLETCHER HALL, Sgt., Inf., Acting Chaplain. DO YOU KNOW THIS GUY?