If they don’t they are S.O. of luck.
And when there’s some route that’s receiving
Its tender regards from the Huns,
Then we gallop hell bent for election
To our duty o’ feeding the guns.
The gas, the H.E., and the shrapnel,
They brighten our path as they burst,
But they’ve never got me or my chevals—
They’ll have to catch up to us first.
I’m a slouch and a slop and a sluffer,