by Cpl. Robert L. Cook
Jan. 42~Sept. 45
I really think I've had
My share of mud.
I think before you go
To spill your blood,
The devil and his crew
Spreads acres of this goo
Just to piss you off
And keep you
Fightin' mad.
I can't remember
Any place that
Was bone dry.
There were no deserts
That were nigh,
So we slugged it out
With them
Through mire
Thick or thin
And somehow
Made it through all.
Mud just don't get there
All alone,
It has some help
To soften up that loam.
And when the rain
Doth fall,
Don't do any good
To bawl,
'Cause you ass is bound
To get all soakin' wet.
If you happen to have
A foxhole dry,
You can thank
The lord above,
For showin' you
His love,
'Cause you're
A very special guy.
Don't count on havin'
Nice dry socks,
Though you packed
A couple of 'em
In your ruck.
For the rain has
Done its best,
It has leaked
Through to your chest
And those socks
Are now all soakin' wet.
Some day, they say,
You'll look back and smile.
You may
But it will take a while.
Ain't nothin' funny,
I must say,
When you spend
The freakin' day
Trying to keep your head
Above the mire.
Cest la guerre!
* * *
About the author: Robert Cook served with Reg. Weapons Co.(2d-2d) from 1942~44, at Guadalcanal
and Tarawa, during a 33-month overseas tour.
