If you're a homebound soldier
Who's done his little best,
And you are going‘ board the boat
At St. Nazaire or Brest,
Bordeaux or any other port,
Steam-up and headed west:
If you are full o’ the joy o’ life
And “pep” and all that stuff;
And the ozone permeates your soul
And makes you gay and bluff,
Do n't turn and yell, “Who won the War?—
The M Ps,” — Can that guff.
For the M Ps are a sacred caste
That boss the city street
A hundred miles behind the Lines
Where dangers never greet,
Nor roaming shells come swirling by,
Nor surging first waves meet.
So if the long, tense session
Of soul-engulfing war,
And “Prussian” discipline and rule,
And heart-enslaving law
Say, “Open wide the throttle
Of lung and throat and jaw” —
Repress that natural impulse,
For you're not human — yet:
Sedately up the gangplank walk,
Eyes front and lips tight set,
Or you'll come back and spend six weeks
In a mud-dump, nice and wet.
The wind is blowing‘ cross the bow,
The first smoke lags alee —
The sun that's broken through the clouds
Is dancing on the sea,
So, homebound soldier, watch your step,
And take advice from me.