_Tell about the fever
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch._
It isn’t erysipelas--
It isn’t nettle-rash;
It isn’t got from eating pork,
Or drinking native trash.
You smear your toes with ointment,
And think you’re getting well,
And then the damn thing comes again
And simply raises hell.
You’ve hiked all day in sun and rain
Through hills and paddy mire,
Abaft the slippery googoos
Who shoot--and then retire:
And now you’ve taken off your shoes
And settled for a rest,
When suddenly your feet they start
To itch _like all possessed_.
(Better take your socks off
And then see how it goes....
“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’s
Stickin’ to m’ toes.”)
Scratching, scratching, scratching,
Burning scab and sore,
(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”
Hear your bunkie roar).
Never mind the poison--
Ease the maddening pain,
Till your poor old tired feet
Start to bleed again.
_Tell about the fever
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch._