May we aim again at a tyrant’s men As straight and swift a blow As at Yorktown came, with smoke and flame, From the guns of Rochambeau! Oh, a mistress fit for our soldier love Is the soixante-quinze, our boast, Our hope and pride, like a new-won bride, But the dread of the Kaiser’s host! J. M. H., F.A. HOME IS WHERE THE PIE IS “Home is where the heart is”— Thus the poet sang; But “home is where the pie is” For the doughboy gang. Crullers in the craters Pastry in abris— Our Salvation Army lass Sure knows how to please. Watch her roll the pie crust Mellower than gold; Watch her place it neatly Within its ample mold; Sniff the grand aroma While it slowly bakes— Though the whine of Minnie shells Echoes far awakes. Tin hat for a halo! Ah, she wears it well! Making pies for homesick lads Sure is “beating hell”; In a region blasted By fire and flame and sword, Our Salvation Army lass Battles for the Lord! Call me sacrilegious, And irreverent, too; Pies? They link us up with home As naught else can do! “Home is where the heart is”— True, the poet sang; But “home is where the pie is” To the Yankee gang! HOW IT WORKS OUT When Jonesy joined the Army he had all the dope down fine. Said he, “I’d ought to land the cush, though serving in the line. A private’s pay is thirty, then by adding ten per cent— That’s thirty-three, And now lessee, In this here now French currency— Five-sixty rate, Makes one-eight-eight, Or thereabouts; why, hell! that’s great! It’s more’n enough To buy me stuff, And let me throw a swell front bluff. Because my chow Is paid for now, And I don’t need but to allow A little kale For vin or ale, And maybe some day blow a frail To vo-de-vee In gay Paree Or some live joint like that citee— Why, I’ll be flush—besides, Friend Govt. is staking me the rent.”