Trouble In The Trenches

The true story of the difficulty on the Russian front.

September, 1917

When Slav and Russ had raised a fuss, And sent their Czar a-kiting, Said Givinski to Blatherski, "We've done enough of fighting."

"I've got a cough," wheezed Killmanoff, "From working in the trenches, I'd rather fight a doggoned sight, Than put up with the stenches.

I want to quit and take a sit In some place clean and brighter, Let those who like come down the pike To strafe the German blighter."

"I've got the itch," growled Dirtovitch, "Bog spavin and lumbago." "I'm never dry," swore Goshallski, "I smell worse than a Dago."

"This cheese is high," grouched Buttinski, "No hungry rat would eat it." "This meat is tough," whined Ivanuff, "I think we ought to beat it."

"It makes me mad," stormed Hazembad, "The prevalence of vermin." "You've said it right," owned Gotabite, "I'm lousy as a German."

Said Takemoff, "Our lives are rough In these here blooming ditches, But mine's the worst by half a verst, Since some guy stole my breeches."

Their pay was back, their belts were slack, Each man his troubles blurted. With empty guns to face the Huns, Small wonder they deserted.