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THE GUNS 33
And then there's the little machine-gun,—
A beggar for blood going large. Go, nil up his belly with iron,
And he'll spit in the face of a charge. The foe fixed his ladders at daybreak,
He's over the top with the sun ; He's waiting ; for ever he's waiting,
The pert little vigilant gun.
Chorus. Its tit-tit! tit-tit! tit! tit! tit! Hark the little terror bristling up to it! See his victims lying, wounded sore and
dying-Red the field and volume on which his name
is writ.
The howitzer lurks in an alley,
(The howitzer isn't a fool,) c |
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