COOTIES.

Some people call‘ em Totos —

Some people call‘ em Lice;

Some people call‘ em several things

That really are n't nice;

But the Soldier calls‘ em “Cooties,”

So “Cooties” must suffice.

We've met the dear Mosquito —

We've met the festive Fly —

It seems to me we've seen the Flea

That jumpeth far and high;

Yea, we have known various bugs —

Though not the reason why.

But when you're in the trenches

And cannot take a bath,

As one canteen of water

Is all one day one hath,

You raise the comely Cooties —

Who raise, in turn, your wrath.

You can n't escape the Cooties

By day nor yet by night.

No G. I. Can alarms them,

Nor other sound of fight.

Not even Gas affects them —

Which does n't seem just right.

You may not eat, you may not sleep,

You may not bat an eye:

You may not duck a six-inch shell

That's singing gaily by,

But that a Cootie, like the Poor,

Is with you — very nigh.

They bite you singly and in squads,

They have a whole parade;

They form a skirmish line and sweep

Across each hill and glade;

But seek their dugouts when you think

Your grip is firmly laid.

It does no good to curse‘ em —

They cannot hear or talk.

It does no good to chase‘ em —

To still-hunt or to stalk.

The only thing is hand-grenades,

At which,‘ tis said, they balk.

Oh Cooties, little Cooties,

You have no sense of shame;

You are not fair, you are not square,

You do not play the game —

But east and west and south and north

Is spread afar your fame.