You God Damn Rummy, You!!!


Fly, Fly, Fly,
You heathens of the sky,
You worthless sons of sin,
Who sneer when comrades die.

Burst your eardrums open,
Crush yourselves to hell!!
You alcoholic half-wits,
Rowdies, ne’er do well.

Burn your tired bodies up,
With women, song, and gin,
Drink and scrounge and half-exist,
You bastard sons of sin.

You always value money,
In the liquor it will buy,
It’s not two hundred dollars
But forty jugs of rye.

You never think of getting out,
And working for your bread,
You’d rather let your bodies rot,
Or starve to death instead.

As you live your peaceful lives,
Each evening kneel and pray,
For us, the lowly fliers,
Lying day to day.

1Author unknown. Reprinted by The Young Men’s Shop, Corner San Carlos Hotel, Pensacola, Florida.  Date unknown. [Submitted by Marland Schrauth (widow of George) 8/01/46.]