Sing a cadence o men of battle,
And trudge the dirt flat.
Dust and sweat form a mud,
Under your helmet for a hat.
Men who were never there will have a lot to say,
As they watch from over sea.
But were the bullets flying nearer them
You’d hear them cry– Why me, Why me!
American Soldiers do the Devil’s work,
Should the critic really believe in Bad.
Better you’d been like them;
A good, good studious Lad.
Pain they say, can never be real
As the stories they’ve long since read,
Scribed and published, glorious and true, in a New York Times ordeal!