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. 
  And the heart of all the nation
    Gives a patriotic throb,
  At the news that Kansas Funston
    Has again gone on the job.

YEAR 2016 IN CHIHUAHUA

  Through the mesquite in old Chihuahua,
    Aimlessly one day I strode,
  Till I chanced upon a figure
    Standing silent in the road. 
  Such an odd, ungainly figure! 
    I stopped, then staggered back,
  Thinking it an ancient spirit
    That had wandered from its track.

  A campaign hat was on his head,
    With strap beneath his chin,
  On his legs some battered leggins,
    And his shoes were old and thin. 
  On his shoulder was a musket,
    Red with the rust of years,
  Like himself, the whole equipment,
    Seemed to justify my fears.

  “What masquerade is this”? said I,
    Though my breath came quick and short,
  Then he, from force of habit,
    Brought his rifle to a port. 
  “Long years ago,” he answered,
    In a mild and patient tone,
  “There was trouble in Chihuahua,
    Where Villa used to roam.

  “When I left the States for Mexico,
    With the Regular Cavalry,
  We numbered several thousand,
    Young, healthy, strong and free. 
  All the others,—­they are sleeping
    On the hillside over there,
  Far from home and loving kindred
    And the native country dear.