O. D.

O. D., it ought to mean Oh Damn,

When in the pay of Uncle Sam:

But when you hear the soldier blab

“O. D.,” it just means Olive Drab.

The leggings, breeches and the boots

Of Uncle Samuel's war galoots —

The overcoats and jackets too,

Confess the selfsame mournful hue.

It may be excellent camouflage

To try to fool a young barrage;

It may not show the bally dirt

So much upon your knees and shirt.

It may be serviceable and such

When you are beating-up the “Dutch;”

But from a calm esthetic point,

The color's sadly out-of-joint.

A little mud on red or blue

May seem quite prominent to you;

But put the same upon O. D.,

And the whole blame thing looks mud to me.

But then, it matches trenches well,

And things that make you say, Oh Hell

For instance, hikes, inspections, drills,

And busted arms with C. C. pills.

It makes you heave a sigh or two

For the good old days of brass and blue;

But if it's fit to beat the “Dutch”

I guess it does n't matter much.