I SIT down to write a poem of our fighting men's renown,

And I scarce get fairly started when they take another town.

A British commentator's praise I versify, and then

A Frenchman up and multiplies the happy words by ten.

The cable service headlines say the Yankees swat the Hun,

But ere I get a jingle framed they've got more on the run.

I'd like to be their Boswell in a khaki--lauding gem,

But darn those doughboys' peppy hides--I can't keep up with them!

It tickles me quite some to hear of how they're spreading Teuts

Around the landscape, and I'll say their ways and means are beauts;

The Fritzian din of "Kamerad" is drowning out the shells

As U. S. shockers shock the shockers with their own pet hells.

I want the good work to go on, but I have one request

To make of them before they lay the kaiser out to rest,

And that is this: Don't stop your war; continue till you've won,

But kindly take a lay-off till I get this anthem done!