CONFIDENTIALLY
There's one in every outfit
Who always beefs and gripes,
He hates the first three-graders,
And has no use for stripes.
He's late for all formations,
And streams off without fail
When he's assigned twice weekly
To work latrine detail.
"The Army's crammed with morons,"
He says, "Between us two,
Our unit's I.Q. average
is barely sixty-two!"
A self-made guardhouse lawyer,
A headache and a bore,
He spends his time misquoting
The Articles of War.
He loves to boast and swagger
Wherever there's a crowd.
And, worst of all, when sleeping
He snores off-key, and loud.
There's one in every outfit,
In ours - who can it be?
Offhand, I cannot name him:
Do you suppose it's me?
- By Sgt. SMITH DAWLESS
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