"A Canadian lieutenant writes his mother from the front that what he most needs for the winter is good warm socks." - Press Despatch.
Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it,
The storm is o'er your head;
It is bursting in the trenches
And you're just as good as dead.
You put your foot on Belgium
And defied your fate and doom,
And now the whole world hates you
And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"
True, your Taubchens still are sailing,
But your battleships are not;
They are coop'd up in a corner
Save the submerg'd ones that fought.
You are saving time and fuel,
But you're sad and filled with gloom,
For the very winds are whispering
"Blow hard and sock it to 'em."
You have sought more spacious realm
In the free and genial sun:
Has your sceptre widened any
With the salvo of each gun?
Your "World-Power" seems to narrow,
And your hope lies in a tomb,
While dark Fate weaves your chaplet
And whispers "Sock it to 'em!"
For Theodore Botrel.