This poem was printed in The Hopkinsville Kentuckian, January 6, 1917:


GOIN' HOME.
William Hervey Allen.

Won't you tell me, Mr. Wilson, why ... you keep us here,
When the border seems so quiet and there's nothin' more to fear?
We don't want to see "Chewawa" and we're tired of eating sand.
Send us back to Pennsyltucky where there ain't no Rio Grand.

It's home, home, home! It's home we want to go.
Take us back to God's own country and the girls we used to know.
Just say: "The choo-choo's waitin'; all aboard for Alabam',"
For we've stayed so long in Texas that nobody gives a damn.

We don't want to see old Villa, but the little girl that waits
And dreams upon her pillow in the dear old eastern states
Of her boy along the border where the horned toads roam.
Send us back to Pennsyltucky, Mr. Wilson; send us home!

Each little canteen rumor bursts like bubbles in the foam,
Though they keep us in good humor, if we THINK we're goin' home;
But I'll tell you, Mr. Wilson, if you want to make a hit,
Just load us on a troop train and say: "Boys, it's time to quit."

For it's home, home, home! It's home we want to go.
Take us back to God's own country where the cactus doesn't grow,
For we're tired of endless drillin' and the same old army chow.
Send us home for something fillin', Mr. Wilson; do it NOW!