MISTER

(For Memorial Day, a WWII-era poem)
 
So you’re tired working, Mister, and
     you think you’ll rest a bit
You’ve been working pretty steady
     and you’re tired and sick of it
You think the war is ending, so
     you’re slowing down the pace
But I want to tell you, Mister, that
     just ain’t the case
 
What would you think, Mister, if we
     quit because we’re tired to?
We’re flesh and blood and human
     and just the same as you
Did you ever dig a foxhole and
     climb down inside
And wish it went to China, so you’d
     have some place to hide—
While Motor Buzzards packed with guns
     were circling overhead
And filling the ground around you
     with hot exploding lead?
 
Did you ever dig out, Mister, from
     slime and mud and dirt
And feel yourself all over to see
     where you were hurt
And find you could not move
     though you were not hurt at all
And feel so darned relieved that
     you sat there and bawled?
 
Were you ever hungry, Mister, not
     that kind that gluts
But the groaning cutting hunger
     that bites inside your guts?
It’s a homesick hunger, Mister, that
     slips around inside
It’s got you in its clutches and
    there ain’t no place to hide
 
Were you ever dirty, Mister, not
     the wilty collar kind
But the oozy, slimy, mussy dirt
     and gritty kind that grinds?
Did you ever mind the heat, Mister
     not the kind that makes you sweat
But the kind that drives you crazy
     even after the sun has set
 
Were you ever weary, Mister, I
     mean dog tired, you know
Where your feet ain’t got no feeling
     and your legs don’t want to go?
But we keep on going, Mister, you
     bet your life we do
And let me tell you, Mister, we expect
     the same of you