Chapter V

“Where is Molly?” Like a Shell,
Short and sharp, the question fell,
Scattering every one pell mell
From the cellar’s safe retreat
Through the house on panic feet,
Basement, Attic--everywhere
They sought, one hope remained and there
On the Drying-roof they found her,
Shrapnel flashing all around her,
Calm and cool ’mid war’s alarms,
Hugging something in her arms.
“I’s all right--don’t cwy!” said Molly,
“I tame back to det my dolly!”

VALE DIABOLE

At a recent church conference it was decided to drop the Devil
from the ritual.

Well! Well! so you’ve been fired,
You’ve lost your job at last.
It’s high time you retired,
Old Boy, you’re failing fast.

You’re getting old, you know it,
You are not in the race.
Admit you cannot go it,
The killing, modern pace.

Your methods are too dull for
The modern school of Hate,
Your lake of burning sulphur
Is sadly out of date.

The Hohenzollern’s Kultur
Mocks at your fiery pits,
His double-headed vulture
Has put yours on the fritz.

Beside the fierce, blaspheming,
Mail-fisted Kaiser Bill,
You are a seraph beaming,
An angel of good-will.

But tho’ we can’t deny, sir,
You’re hopelessly outclassed,
You’ve one thing on the Kaiser,
Which is, tho’ first and last

A failure as a devil,
Yet boast of this you can:
You were always on the level--
And--you are a gentleman!

THE WRONG FLOOR

A certain Emperor
(This is a censored tale)
Once pounded on the door
Of heaven with fist of mail.

Cried Peter from within,
Awakened by the row,
“Stop that infernal din!
Who are you, anyhow?”

“Don’t bandy words with me!”
Thundered the visitor.
“All doors to me are free.
I am the Emperor.”

“If you’re an Emperor,”
Said Peter, “then I fear
You’ve come to the wrong floor.
We take no Emperors here.

“Our waiting list is filled
With martyrs brave and true
Whose blood an Emperor spilled.
There is no room for you.”

Cowed by Saint Peter’s look,
The Emperor, with a frown,
Cried, “Well, I’m damned!” and took
The elevator--down.

MARCHING TO BERLIN

We come from God’s own country in the ships of Uncle Sam;
We’re going to get the william-goat of Kaiser Will--i--am;
We know it is _verboten_, but we do not give a damn,
As we go marching to Berlin!
(_Drums_) Berlin! Berlin!
Berlin! Berlin! Berlin!
As we go marching to Berlin!

_Refrain_

Hurray! Hurray! We’ll wave the Stripes and Stars!
Away, away with Emperors and Czars!
And when we get the Kaiser we’ll put him behind the bars,
As we go marching to Berlin!
(_Drums_) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

We’re from the dear old U. S. A., the Land of Liberty;
We’ve crossed a hundred rivers and three thousand miles of sea
To teach the Huns a thing or two about Democracy,
As we go marching to Berlin!
(_Drums_) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

_Refrain_

Hurray! Hurray! We’ll show the Prussian swine
That Freedom is the only Right Divine,
And when we catch old Kaiser Bill we’ll pitch him in the Rhine,
As we go marching to Berlin!
(_Drums_) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

We’ve left our happy homes that we may help to win the war.
We’re a million strong already, and there’ll soon be millions more;
And when the job is done with Kaiser Bill we’ll mop the floor,
As we go marching to Berlin!
(_Drums_) Berlin! Berlin! etc.

_Refrain_

Hurray! Hurray! We’re going to make it hot
For all the bloody Hohenzollern lot,
And when we get the Kaiser we’ll present him to his Gott,
As we go marching to Berlin!
(_Drums_) Berlin! Berlin!
Berlin! Berlin! Berlin!
As we go marching to Berlin!

TARGET PRACTICE

At the Imperial Schützenfest
Fritz Pickelheim led all the rest;

At target practice Pickelheim
Could hit the Red Cross every time;

At the clay-baby contest Fritz
Scored nineteen out of twenty hits;

And once he won the Kaiser’s purse
With nine live babies and a nurse.

THE SAUSAGE BALLOON

I often wonder, when we fry
A Sausage, if its thoughts can fly

Across the billowy ocean wave
To where its namesake stern and brave
Floats like a Guardian Angel, high
Above our armies, in the sky,
Serene and stately as a cloud.
No wonder Sausages are proud!
No wonder Sausages when fried
Oft-times swell up and burst with pride!

CONCERNING THE CROWN PRINCE

I

When Crown Prince Willy goes to bed
It is his wont to lay his head
Upon the pillow and extend
His feet towards the other end.
“But does he really wear his hat
In bed?” you ask--well, as to that
I cannot say, I never saw him,
But that’s the way _I_ always draw him.

II

The thing that Germans most admire
Is Crownie’s coolness under fire.
He loves to watch it gleam and glow
’Mid fragrant smoke, an inch or so
Above his nose as he reclines
In some Château behind the lines;
If the Crown Prince had his desire
He would be _always_ under fire!

III

When you or I get up at eight
We do not have to cogitate
And rack our brains concerning just
Which suit to wear, as Princes must;
The Crown Prince has a hundred suits,
Including hats and belts and boots,
Yet such his master-mind, he knows
Which he must wear and just what goes
With what, which chevron, sash or sword,
Each in his Royal Head is stored,
Down to the detail of a spur,
All in a Nut-shell, as it were!

IV

Here is a most uncensored sight!
The Prince, in garb Pre-Adamite
Taking (but tell it not in Gath)
A good old English shower-bath!