FROM THE GREAT WAR
155
THE COMB BAND
Permission of the author
Oh we love the gay canned music in the watches of the night
And we sit about and listen to its records with delight,
And we like to hear the music of the regimental band
While the leader juggles gayly with the baton in his hand,
But the melody that's sweetest as we linger in the gloam
Is the harmony extracted from a fine-tooth comb.
Yes, we get some tissue-paper and some combs from out our kit
And we gather in the squad tent where the lantern shadows flit,
And we play a bunch of rag-time with a lot of vim and go
In a sort of jazz-band rhythm—all the latest stuff we know;
Tunes that set your shoulders swaying, while your thoughts are light as foam,
To the sound of syncopation on a fine-tooth comb.
