Embarkation Home
IF you’re 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,
Don’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 advise from me.
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