WWI American
Immigrant Poetry
I VOUCH for all, and who would doubt my truth?
I was a witness of the slaughterous deed.
We traveled half a day thro’ Belgium.
The sight I saw would make a hard heart bleed.
(We had to travel in a third-class train,
But war is hell, so I must not complain.)
I saw a kettle, hanging on three sticks,
Left by the dastard Germans in their flight.
What hideous usage was it hanging for?
O shades of Erebus and darkest night!
(’Twas second-class we had to cross the sea,
And that was brutal treatment, you’ll agree.)
’Twas little Belgian babies that they boiled
In that loathed kettle. Who would dare dispute?
What else, now tell me, was that kettle for?
I saw it. And the German is a brute.
(We went unfed for almost one whole day,
That was an outrage, I shall always say.)
Of course, I could not let you use my name,
Publicity, you know, I could not bear.
Just sign my story simply “Veritas,”
“Impartial,” or “A Woman Who Was There.”
(I think the President should interfere,
When this atrocity shall reach his ear.)