Part 1 — OUT O' LUCK

If, in spite of hopes and promises, your pay day doesn't come, If the sergeant antedates the call, or Friday's fish is bum, Or the waiter empties soup on you—don't let 'em see you glum. You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck. If you must deploy your skirmish line with nothing in your dome, Or send supporting picket-lines to countermarch the Somme, The chances are you've guessed it wrong and "may as well go home." You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck. If you drop between the battle-lines and no one finds the place, Or jump into a pit and drive a bay'nit through your face, Or try to stop a ten-inch shell and leave an empty space. You're out o' luck, that's all. You're out o' luck.