We don’t pack no gat or rifle, we don’t juggle pick or spade, Nor go stunnin’ peevish Germans in no dashin’ midnight raid; But we hit the warehouse early and we quit the warehouse late, And there ain’t no G.O. limits on the speed we truck the freight. We don’t hike along the roadway in them iron derby hats While the shrapnel punctuates the breeze and gas floats o’er the flats; We just dodge the fallin’ cases and we slap them back on high, For it’s just a pile o’ pilin’ in the Service of Supply. No, we ain’t no snappy soldiers, and our daily round of drills Includes a lot of movements minus military thrills; But we drill them bloomin’ box cars, double timin’ on the bends, And we slam them full of boxes till they’re bulgin’ at the ends. We ain’t sniped no Fritzie snipers, and we ain’t wrecked no tanks, And we don’t go dashin’ forward with the ever-thinnin’ ranks; But some nights we gets an order for a shipment on the fly, Then we plug right through till mornin’, in the Service of Supply. We ain’t got no dugout movies, nor a Charlie Chaplin laugh; We ain’t got no handsome colonel with his neat and nifty staff, Nor a brave and fearless captain with a flashing sword and gun To yell, “Now up and at ’em, boys! We’ve got ’em on the run!” We ain’t soaring round in biplanes, punching holes in Boche balloons, Nor corralling frightened Fritzies by battalions and platoons, But when they yell, “Rush order!” then we get around right spry, For the boys are up there waitin’—on the Service of Supply. C. C. SHANFELTER, Sgt., S.C. BLACK AND WHITE I was like the child Who believed there was A Santa Claus But had never seen him, Only I have seen another world And know it exists. I used to think that There was only one world— A world of Mud And bursting shells Which killed and wounded Me and my pals; A world of Hizzing bullets And mustard gas, And cold, sleepless nights, And no food for days, And Huns who cried “Kamerad!” (When their ammunition was gone), And filthy clothes, And cooties And cooties And cooties.