War!

These are the shirts and pants we don
When Uncle Sam calls the fighting on.
While mama's crying on the lawn
Papa's pipe puffs short and long.
Into the fray like leaping pawns
We'll meet the bishops' bayonets
Approaching them without regret.
Our shot will cry in bloody moans,
In sardine cans we're air-mailed home.
We'll charge and scream and win the war!
It's honor we are fighting for
Or God or gold or nothing more.
Our heels are flush, our scalps are shorn,
We'll prove ourselves in uniform!