Cross Roads

TIM—MY BUNKIE

     I met Tim th' other day
     On Broadway;
     Hadn't seem him since he fell,
     Covered like with streaks of blood,
     In th' Argonne's battle hell.

     Tim an' me was bunkies; we
     Marched together
     Through th' water an' th' slime—
     SUNNY FRANCE, HEY?  We seen weather
     That we hadn't dreamed COULD be
     Anywhere or any time.
     We had fought—well, hand to hand,
     Over miles o' broken land,
     Through th' Vesle, an' by th' Aisne,
     When th' shrapnel fell like rain—
     Tim an' me was bunkies—see?

     Smilin' sort o' cuss was Tim;
     Never seen th' beat o' him!
     He could whistle when a pack
     Was like lead upon his back;
     He could smile with blistered feet;
     Never swore at monkey meat,
     Or at cooties, or th' drill;
     Always laughin'—never still—
     That was Tim!

     Say, th' fellers loved that boy!
     Chaplain said that he "was joy
     All incarnate—"  Sounds all right,
     But th' men said he was WHITE,
     That meant most to us, I'd say!
     Why, we never seen th' day
     When he wouldn't help a guy.
     If he had a franc he'd buy
     Chocolate or chow for us,
     Gen'rus little smilin' cuss—
     That was Tim!

     When THEY got him, I can see
     Even now, th' way he slipped
     To th' ground beside o' me.
     Red blood dripped
     From his tunic an' his chin,
     But he choked out, "Fellers, win!
     "Me, I don't much matter, GRIN!"

     Sure we had ter leave him lay;
     War is always that-a-way;
     An' we thought o'course he'd die.
     Maybe that's the reason why
     We could fight th' way we did;
     Why we found th' guns THEY hid;
     Why we broke their line in two,
     Whistlin' a tune HE knew
     All th' time we pushed 'em back,
     Crowdin' on 'em whack fer whack!

     I seen Tim th' other day
     On Broadway;
     He had lef' one arm in France,
     But his eyes was all a-dance
     When he seen me face t' face.
     "Say," he shouts, "ain't this SOME place?
     Ain't it great th' war is through?
     Glad I seen it, though; ain't you?"

     Smilin' sort o' little cuss,
     Meetin' me without a fuss—
     Tim, my bunkie, livin'!... Tim!
     That's him!