The Sniper
Because back home in Tennessee
I was a champeen shot,
They made a sniper outa me
An’ ninety krouts I got:
I wish to Christ I’d not!
Athinkin’ o’ them blasted lives
It’s kindo’ blue I be;
Them lads no doubt had kids an’ wives
An’ happy home like me:
Them stiffs I still can see.
Aye, ninety men or more my hand
Has hustled down to hell;
They’ve loaded me with medals and
They tell me I done well:
A hero for a spell.
But Heaven help me to forget
Them fellow men I’ve slain,
The bubbling flow of blood I’ve let . . .
I’ll never kill again:
To swat flies gives me pain.
Just let me dream when we will see
And end of soldierin’;
When flags of famous victory
Will be amoulderin’:
An’ lethal steel an’ battle blast
Be nightmares of the past.
Other works by Robert W. Service...
