  Jim marched away one summer day To fight the boastful Hun, In khaki clad, as fine a lad As ever carried gun, No braver knight e'er went to fight, In shining coat of mail, In days of old, for love or gold, Or for the Holy Grail. His aim was sure, his heart was pure, Like good Sir Galahad, He played the game when hardships came His face was always glad, Until, by chance, somewhere in France, He saw a "Hometown Sun," He read one page, then in a rage He strafed it like a Hun. The girl he loved had faithless proved, And German slacker wed; That cruel stroke Jim's spirit broke, He wished that he were dead. He who had been so straight and clean, And every fellow's chum, Now lived apart with hardened heart, And soaked himself with rum. 'Mid rats and mice and fleas and lice He spent his days and nights; Waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood, He fought a hundred fights; His faith was lost, the angel host Of Mons he didn't see; No Comrade White beheld his plight, With loving sympathy. The devil strip, where bullets zipp, The narrow neutral band Where man to man they fight and plan To win that "No Man's Land"; Here Jim would go to hunt the foe, He thought it only fun, And that day lost that couldn't boast Another slaughtered Hun. Jim's bright young manhood marred; His health was sound, he got no wound, But sin his spirit scarred. Some lost their health, some lost their wealth, Of all war took its toll, Some lost their life in bloody strife, Jim only lost his soul. |
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