Classic Poem

Sometimes he's selling hairpins at a counter!
Sometimes he's standing working at a loom!
Sometimes he's planting “taters” in a furrow!
Or handing round the dishes in his master's dining-room.
And other times you'll see him in an office!
With polished nails and nicely parted hair,
But it's not his job that matters,
His finery or his tatters,
For there's something in a slacker you can tell him anywhere.

It's something in the look he has about him!
It's something in the way he meets your eye!
It's something in his sloppy way of talking!
It's something in the manner of the people passing by
You know he can't be happy, he don't look it—
He knows he isn't acting like a man.
His pluck is wearing thin,
For he's thinking of his skin,
And he's damn well going to save it, if in any way he can!

He says his country doesn't really want him.
He says that he has got a duty here.
He says so much you couldn't really mind him,
And, poor chap, we listen, but we know the reason's fear.
His women-folk are silent, they don't say much—
His mother is the saddest thing on earth,
She defends him when she can,
But he's proved he's not a man,
And she wishes she had buried him the hour she gave him birth.