The Weekly Iberian

(Dispatch from Washington—
“Pres. Harding has vetoed the Soldiers' Bonus Bill.”)

I remember the dawn of that cold, rainy day,
Our first time over the top,
How for hours we crouched in the mud of the trench,
With our hearts going flippity-flop.
And at last the word came—and over we went,
Where the bullets whistled and spat;
And shrapnel screamed 'round like demons from hell.
But no one put a veto on that.

I remember a night in a thick, marshy wood,
When the Boche gave a chlorine gas ball;
We couldn't fight back, we were held in reserve—
Had to stay there and take it, that's all.
And thicker and thicker the stinking fumes grew
While we lay there sprawling out flat,
Choking and cursing, but holding our ground;
And no one put a veto on that.

I remember the nights when with pick and with spade
We scooped shallow graves for our dead;
No songs could be sung—there were snipers around,
Not even a prayer could be said.
We had to work fast, for with coming of day
The guns would again start to chat;
Without coffins or blankets we laid them away,
But no one put a veto on that.