d
And was soon--dead to the World.

THAT UNIFORM

Tis strange, but yet 'tis true, we see
Sane men who seem to think that we,
Who wear the blue, are not the same
As other men. We have a name
Scarce thought of with respect; 'tis used
To frighten children, and abused
By those who only wish to show
A few of the many things they don't know.

We read "the soldiers came to town
And raised particular ----," and so on down
A column or more of such vile stuff;
'Twould make us all cry "Hold! Enough!"
You see, there's scarcely anything
To write about. While these things sting,
What's that to us? We may lose by it;
But the public's fed, ye gods, the diet.

An old saw, which, perhaps, e'en you
Have heard, and some thought true,
Seems to have been forgotten, quite,
Or else we do not think it right.
Our fathers used to think that way,
But we are wiser (?) in our day.
Try to remember it, if you can,
Tis this: "The clothes don't make the man."

Don't turn the soldier down. You may,
For aught you know, or others say,
Be entertaining, unawares,
An angel; and, if not, who cares?
For, be he good, bad, weak or strong,
'Mid summer's sun or winter's storm,
You call on him to right your wrong,
Altho he wears a uniform.

IN THE COLD GREY DAWN OF THE MORNING AFTER

Bring me a dry Martini, waiter,
Chase in something that's wet,
I was out to a clam bake yesterday,
And I haven't got over it yet.

Throw me a pleasant look, waiter,
Smile at me pretty, don't frown,
And pour some glue on my breakfast
So I can keep it down.

I hear they have discovered the pole, waiter,
I wish I had it here now,
They can't come any too cold for me
To put on my aching brow.

Many a schooner was wrecked last night,
And the waves ran mountain high.
Personally, I was soused to the gills,
But today I'm awfully dry.

It was a terrible night at sea, waiter,
And many are missing, I think,
But as near as I can remember
I never missed a drink.

The one in blue got my purse, waiter,
Her side-kick got my clock,
I don't want to know what time it is,
Please lead me down to the dock.

Lead me down to the dock, waiter,
For a watery grave I pine,
The place for a man that is pickled
Is over my head in brine.

Tell them in Olongapo,
I died as a hero should,
Up to the neck, in cold, cold suds