  Mine dear Fritz,—Vot to tink I don't know, Ven dose hospital letters I get, But mine tears dey vill run britty shlow, Till I hear some tings different yet, Ven you're sick like you tries to make oudt, Vot you vant mit some shmeircase to eat, Und pork sausages, coffee and kraut Und limburger und pickled pig's feet? I shoost tink you contented might shtay, Till de var is all ofer und done, Mit some custards und jells like you say, Dat is better dan facing de gun. Ve get nefer such goot tings like dese Here at home in de old Faderland, For dose English shut up all de seas Ven to shtarve us goot Shermans dey planned. Ven de men und de poys vent avay For to fight for de goot Faderland, Den de vomans must vork all de day Mit a piece of plack bread in deir hand. Dere's no meat now, nor butter at all, Shoost de tings ve can grow in de ground; Und already I'm getting so shmall, Dat mine dress vill go twice times around. All dat cash in de bank dat ve haf, Ven de Kaiser's men need it, dey said, If dey takes efry cent dat ve save, Schraps of baper dey gifs us instead. But I fool dose chaps vonce, britty soon, For I put all de gold in a sack, Mit your vatch, und mine brooches und shpoon In de garden I bury dem back. Yours yet, Katrina. |
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