18 to 45

I'm something over eighteen, yet I'm under forty-five! I've no flat feet, no leaky valves, No wife and babes alive. So— With no dependent, no defect, Not e'en a near-sight eye, Methinks quite soon I'll hear you say: "So long! Good luck! Good-bye!" My putteed calves will look a sight— I'm long, but short on weight— My feet won't fit the Munson last, My rising hour is eight. But— The army is gwine ter git me, My name's done been enrolled. I'd like to be a baby gal Not more'n one year old! I'm old enough, I'm young enough To do some thing, I guess; So I'll just stop my foolish talk And say, "I'm ready, yes!" For There's not a job, there's not a niche But needs some man to fit. For you and me there's just one thing: Go in and do our bit! They found a job, they found the niche They said that I would fit; And in Argonne one foggy morn They said, "Now do your bit!" Wow! Old Jerry seemed to know I'd come; His shells all came my way! Ugh! Mustard gas! * * * Then mustered out— I didn't last one day!