War Rhymes | Page 6

Huns,?My dad will say "retire Jack".?That's how they spike my guns.?My teacher's a conscriptionist,?She calls me "Johnnie dear,"?But backs it with an iron fist?And so I volunteer.
I got kept in at school one day?For lessons not half learned,?And when dad asked, "Why this delay?"?I said I'd been interned.?And when our test exams came out?And mine were extra bad,?I said, "We needn't fuss about?A scrap of paper, dad."
When sister's chap comes round at night,?And pa seems in a rage,?Ma only smiles; she knows all right,?It's just dad's camoflage.?And when I entertain this beau?While Sis puts on her dress,?Sometimes I get a dime, you know;?That's strategy, I guess.
My dad is getting rather stout,?And hates to mow the lawn;?But when he gets the mower out,?First thing he knows I'm gone;?But when I've trouble with my pa?No matter what it's for,?I make an ally of my ma,?And then I win the war.
THE TRENCH THAT FRITZ BUILT
This is the trench that Fritz built.
This is the Hun who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the gun that killed the Hun who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the farmer's only son, who mans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the farmer, weary and worn, who raised the son, who mans the gun, that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is she, who in youth's bright morn, was wed to the man, now weary and worn, 'tis she to whom the son was born, who in front of the battle, all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the slacker, all shaven and shorn, who drives a car with a tooting horn, and laughs at the farmer weary and worn, and his wife at work in the early morn, hoeing potatoes and beets and corn, because the son, who to them was born, is in front of the battle, all tattered and torn, still manning the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built.
This is the maid who treats with scorn the shifty slacker, all shaven and shorn, and his shining car with the tooting horn, but honors the farmer weary and worn, and his wife who helps him hoe the corn, and milk the cows in the early morn, for she loves the son who to them was born, who in front of the battle all tattered and torn, still mans the gun that killed the Hun, who lay in the trench that Fritz built!
=Nursery Rhymes=
=Up-to-Date=
TEN LITTLE SLACKERS
Ten little slackers standing in a line,?One went to U. S., then there were nine.?Nine little slackers out for a skate,?One broke his leg and then there were eight.?Eight little slackers playing odd and even,?Got in a mix up and then there were seven.?Seven little slackers sucking sugar sticks,?One got dyspepsia, then there were six.?Six little slackers only half alive,?One got married and then there were five.?Five little slackers were such a bore?The fool killer got one, then there were four.?Four little slackers out on a spree,?Auto turned turtle, and then there were three.?Three little slackers in a canoe,?Simpleton rocked the boat, then there were two.?Two little slackers, one was a Hun,?He got imprisoned, then there was one.?One little slacker, war nearly won,?He got conscripted, then there were none.?One little, two little, three little slackers,?Four little, five little, six little slackers,?Seven little, eight little, nine little slackers,?Ten little slacker men.

Jack Sprat can eat no fat,?His wife can eat no lean,?Because upon their platter now?No meat is ever seen.
Make a cake, make a cake, my good man,?Make it of treacle and cornmeal and bran,?Tick it and pick it and mark it with B,?And eat it for breakfast and dinner and tea.
Little deeds and mortgages,?Little bonds and stocks,?Help amid financial storms?To keep us off the rocks.
Little loads of stove wood,?Little jags of coal,?Make our pocket books look sick,?And put us in the hole.
Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,?Eating his whole wheat pie,?He looked pretty glum for he found not a plum,?And he said, I don't like this old pie.
Little Tommy Tucker sang for his supper,?What did he sing for? White bread and butter;?But he had to take corn-cake instead of white bread,?With oleomargarine on it to spread.
Farmer Dingle had a little pig,?Not very little and not very big;?It weighed two hundred or a few pounds over?And brought fifty dollars when sold to a drover.?Then Farmer Dingle stood up and lied,?And Mrs. Dingle sat down and cried,?"Hogs eat so much valuable feed," said he,?"They need," said he,?"Good feed," said she,?So there's really no money in pigee wigee wee.
One little man went to battle,?One little man stayed at home,?One little man got white bread and butter,?One