TRANSCRIBED FROM THE COURIER DEMOCRAT FEBRUARY 28, 1918 P. 4
Editor Courier-Democrat:
If you will allow me space in the C D I would like to have the following published:
LET HIM LIVE.
With nothing to drink but Belgian tea
As long as flowers their perfume give,
So long I'd let the Kaiser live;
Live and live for a million years,
With nothing to quench his awful thirst
But the salted brine of a Scotchman's curse.
I'd let him live on a dinner each day
Served from silver on a golden tray;
Made of things both dainty and sweet,
Served with all--save things to eat!
I'd make him a bed of silken sheen,
With costly linens to lie between,
With covers of down and filets of lace
And downy pillows piled in place--
Yet when to its comfort he would yield
It would stink with the rot of the battlefield,
And blood, and bones and brains of men
Should cover him, smother him, and then
His pillows should cling with the rotten clay
From the grave of a soldier past away
And while God's stars their vigil keep,
While the waves their white sands sweep,
And memories of Belgium cause women to weep.
He should never, never sleep.
Through all the days and all the years
There'd be an anthem in his ears,
Ringing and singing, and never done
From the edge of light till the set of the sun--
Moaning and moaning, moaning wild,
A poor American mother's child.
I'd build him a castle by the sea,
As lovely as castle ever could be;
There I'd show him a ship, a mighty fleet,
Laden with water cold and sweet,
Laden with everything good to eat;
But ere the vessels should touch the land
A hot and hellish molten shell
Should change his heaven into hell!
Then he'd watch the wave sweptshore
But the Luscitania would rise no more.
In No Man's Land where the Irish fell
I'd start the Kaiser a private hell;
I'd jab him, stab him, give him gas,
In every wound I'd pour ground glass;
I'd march him out where the brave boys died.
Out past the lads he crucified!
In the fearful gloom of his living tomb
E'en more I'd do before I was through:
I'd make him sing in stirring manner
The glorious words of the "Star Spangled Banner!"
T. J. GOTCHER.
Co. C., 3rd Reg, Camp Dewey, Great Lakes, Ill.
NOTES: This poem was written by Thomas Jefferson Gotcher of Pope County, Arkansas. He was born in Pope County, Arkansas on December 22, 1892 and died on June 19, 1965. He is buried in the Edgewood Memorial Park in North Little Rock, Arkansas.
TRANSCRIBED BY LAEL HARROD
Editor Courier-Democrat:
If you will allow me space in the C D I would like to have the following published:
LET HIM LIVE.
With nothing to drink but Belgian tea
As long as flowers their perfume give,
So long I'd let the Kaiser live;
Live and live for a million years,
With nothing to quench his awful thirst
But the salted brine of a Scotchman's curse.
I'd let him live on a dinner each day
Served from silver on a golden tray;
Made of things both dainty and sweet,
Served with all--save things to eat!
I'd make him a bed of silken sheen,
With costly linens to lie between,
With covers of down and filets of lace
And downy pillows piled in place--
Yet when to its comfort he would yield
It would stink with the rot of the battlefield,
And blood, and bones and brains of men
Should cover him, smother him, and then
His pillows should cling with the rotten clay
From the grave of a soldier past away
And while God's stars their vigil keep,
While the waves their white sands sweep,
And memories of Belgium cause women to weep.
He should never, never sleep.
Through all the days and all the years
There'd be an anthem in his ears,
Ringing and singing, and never done
From the edge of light till the set of the sun--
Moaning and moaning, moaning wild,
A poor American mother's child.
I'd build him a castle by the sea,
As lovely as castle ever could be;
There I'd show him a ship, a mighty fleet,
Laden with water cold and sweet,
Laden with everything good to eat;
But ere the vessels should touch the land
A hot and hellish molten shell
Should change his heaven into hell!
Then he'd watch the wave sweptshore
But the Luscitania would rise no more.
In No Man's Land where the Irish fell
I'd start the Kaiser a private hell;
I'd jab him, stab him, give him gas,
In every wound I'd pour ground glass;
I'd march him out where the brave boys died.
Out past the lads he crucified!
In the fearful gloom of his living tomb
E'en more I'd do before I was through:
I'd make him sing in stirring manner
The glorious words of the "Star Spangled Banner!"
T. J. GOTCHER.
Co. C., 3rd Reg, Camp Dewey, Great Lakes, Ill.
NOTES: This poem was written by Thomas Jefferson Gotcher of Pope County, Arkansas. He was born in Pope County, Arkansas on December 22, 1892 and died on June 19, 1965. He is buried in the Edgewood Memorial Park in North Little Rock, Arkansas.
TRANSCRIBED BY LAEL HARROD