For martial souls to own?
They are thoughts, my friend, that we would not mend,
That are bred of our blood and bone.
A mustard shell it is very well,
And an egg grenade’s O.K.,
But we get our steam from our little dream
Of the good old U.S.A.
Cotton fields along the river,
Night lights streaming from a mill;
Corn, with curling leaves a-quiver,