TANKS O. C. A. CHILD

YES, back at home I used to drive a tram; And Sammy, there, he was a driver, too— He used to ride his racer—did Sir Sam; While pokey London streets was all I knew. But now, His Nibs and I, of equal rank, Are chummy as the paper and the wall, Each tooling of a caterpillar tank, Each waiting on the blest old bugle call. Say! Tanks are sport—when you get used to them, They’re like a blooming railroad, self-contained; They lay their tracks, as you might say—pro tem, And pick ’em up, and there’s good distance gained. They roar across rough country like a gale, They lean against a house and push it down, They’re like a baby fortress under sail, And antic as a three-ring circus clown. Sam says they’re slow. They may seem so to him— They can’t show fancy mile-a-minute stuff, But when they charge, in armored fighting trim, You bet the Germans find ’em fast enough! Now Sam and I are waiting, side by side, To steam across yon farm-land in the night; We’ll take their blamed barbed wire in our strides And stamp a German trench line out of sight.