In the thick of a scrap, with sweat oozin’ like sap,
She puts her cool hand into ours;
An’ like that everywhere, we c’n feel that she’s there,
With her help, and her smile like the flowers.
Frederick W. Kurth, Sgt., M.T.D.
THE STEVEDORE
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.