among their dead? 
  Thousands of wounds, a-gaping and wide,
    Who will recover, and who will have died? 
  Millions of mothers so anxious at home,
    Who will wear crepe for loved ones, alone? 
  Millions of sweethearts who’ll weep o’er the “lists,”
    Which lovers the lips ne’er more to be kissed? 
  All is a Gamble—­this War-Game of Chance—­
    The life of a Conscript over in France. 
  The “Roulette of Life” is spinning so fast,
    The “red ball of Death” must drop in at last;
  Which numbers will win, which numbers will lose,
    The “odds” or the “evens,” the “reds” or the “blues”? 
  Yet Hope is the “Banker” and He will repay
    The chances that Conscripts must take in the fray;
  And Fate’s a Good sport, when “dealing the cards,”
    He’ll give “Fifty-fifty” to Conscript for odds.

THE SLACKER

  Why don’t he volunteer to serve
  In Uncle Sammy’s grand reserve? 
  He knows quite well his country’s call;
  Has no regard for this, at all. 
  He never thinks to do his part,
  Because he has a Slacker’s heart.

  He walks along the street quite spry—­
  To feign indifference he must try,
  When suddenly he takes affright,
  It’s just a picture (what a sight)
  Of Uncle Sam with pointing finger. 
  Take it from me!  He doesn’t linger.

  “Why don’t you do it? do it quick!”
  The Slacker’s skull is very thick. 
  It never penetrates the gray,
  What Uncle Sammy, has to say. 
  “I want you now!” Oh, what a Mutt. 
  The words fall on a brainless nut.

  He lied on registration day—­
  Conscription’s law he’ll not obey. 
  He seeks the nuptial vows to take,
  Or any other useless fake. 
  Whatever else, he’ll never fight. 
  He has the Slacker’s ear-marks right.

  Oh, what a useless, shameless pest,
  A blot on human kind at best. 
  His feelings are for Self alone. 
  He would not give a dog the bone. 
  Behold his attitude—­his pose. 
  The Slacker’s ring is in his nose.

  For country’s call—­for country’s sake—­
  For Liberty he will not stake
  His bit, nor will he ever be
  But half a man.  Not he—­not he. 
  His formula contains no sand—­
  It’s plain, he is the Slacker “Brand.”

  A sneak—­a snake—­a cur—­a blasted
  Dirty rotten scourge, dodgasted
  Coward, thief, and all the rest—­
  Can’t spell the name that suits the best. 
  There’s just one place for such as he—­
  Not on the earth—­eternity.

PREPAREDNESS

  I never had no warlike mind,
    I b’long to the plowin’ peaceful kind
  Thet stays at home and works along,
    Sun to sun—­I’m good and strong—–­
  But, neighbor, let me speak my mind: 
    When my country sez to back her,