Fedora-style I did my bit in jungle sun and dirt,
And now I’ve got a mortal hit, just like the old blue shirt!
I hear the tingling ’Frisco cheers, the squat “Kilpatrick” sway,
As boldly swung we from the piers, Manila months away.
Luzon, Panay—I saw them all, Pekin was not the least—
O I have felt the siren call that sweeps from out the East.
Below the line of Capricorn in divers times and places
I’ve heard retreating yowls of scorn from herds of Spiggot races.
The Rio Grande and Vera Cruz—I knew them like a map,
And now it looks as though I lose—the jackpot to a cap!