"I'd like to be a captain, dad, a major or a colonel,
I'd like to get my picture in some illustrated journal;
I don't exactly fancy jobs that now and then come my way,
Like picking bits of rubbish up that desecrate the highway.
But still I'll do those menial tasks as cheerfully as could one,
For while I am a private here I'm going to be a good one.
"A soldier's life is not the way I'd choose to make my living,
But now I'm in the ranks to serve, my best to it I'm giving.
Oh, I could name a dozen jobs that I'd consider finer,
But since I've got this one to do I'll never be a whiner.
I'm just a private in the ranks, but take it from my letter,
They'll never fire your son for one who'll do his duty better."
His Santa Claus
He will not come to him this year with all his old-time joy,
An imitation Santa Claus must serve his little boy;
Last year he heard the reindeers paw the roof above his head,
And as he dreamed the kindly saint tip-toed about his bed,
But Christmas Eve he will not come by any happy chance;
This year his kindly Santa Claus must guard a trench in France.
His mother bravely tries to smile; last Christmas Eve was gay;
Last Christmas morn his daddy rose at dawn with him to play;
This year he'll hang his stocking by the chimney, but the hands
That filled it with the joys he craved now serve in foreign lands.
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