The Marines, the Marines,
Those blasted Gyrenes,
Those seagoing bellhops,
Those brass-buttoned queens,
Oh! They pat their own back
Write stories in reams,
All in the praise of themselves—
The U.S. Marines!

The Marines, The Marines,
Those publicity fiends,
They built all the forests,
Turned on all the streams,
Discontent with the earth,
They say Heaven’s scenes
Are guarded by—you guess
Right! U.S. Marines!

The moon never beams,
Except when the Marines
Give it permission to turn on its gleams.
And the tide never rises,
The wind never screams—
Unless authorized by the U.S. Marines

The Marines, the Marines,
In their khakis and greens,
Their pretty blue panties,
Red stripes down their seams.
They have thought all the thoughts,
Dreamed all the dreams.

Singing, “The Song of Myself”—The U.S. Marines.—From “Gismo” a publication for all servicemen in the South Pacific, this pent-up irritation was let out in doggerel “believed to be by a sailor.” May 6, 1944.

Originally posted 2015-12-17 12:33:18.