Don't think for a minute I'm a sorehead
because I am in for bob,
My muscles shure got hard in the army;
I can d----! easy get a job.
And if some time, in the future, I would
hate someone to think me a friend,
I'll advise him to enlist in the army, good
night, I know that sure is his end.
FUNSTON
Never any style about him,
Not imposing on parade,
Couldn't make him look heroic,
With no end of golden braid.
Figure sort o' stout and dumpy,
Hair and whiskers kind of red,
But he's always moving forward,
When there's trouble on ahead.
Five foot five, of nerve and daring,
Eyes pale blue, and steely bright,
Not afraid of man or devil,
That is Funston in a fight.
Fighting since he learned to toddle,
Soldier since he got his growth,
Knows the Spaniard and the savage,
For he's fought and licked 'em both,
Not much figure in the ball room,
Not much hand at breaking hearts,
Rotten ringer for Apollo,
But right thing when something starts;
Just a bunch of brains and muscles,
But you always feel somehow
That he'll get what he goes after,
When he mixes in a row.
Weyler found out all about him,
Set a price upon his head;
Aguinaldo's crafty warriors
Nearly filled him full of lead.
Yellow men and yellow fever,
Tried to cut off his career;
But since he first hit the war trail,
He has never slipped a year.
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