Editor’s Note: The following is taken from the 1920 Review and was provided by 12570 Mike Kennedy.
From the 1920 RMC Review
My hypodermic ready is.
My needle thrusteth sure,
Its strength as is the strength of ten
Because my lymph is pure.
Form up in line, the Doctor cries,
Prepare to face the steel,
The arms are bared, the lines stand fast,
Until the wound they feel.
They reel, they roll, they break their ranks,
They fall upon the hardwood floor,
The Doctor dreameth not of thanks,
But quickly steps without the door.
The morrow dawns, across the square
The G.C.’c wend their way,
And dumbly to their class-rooms go,
Too tired for work or play.
Class, ‘Shun, the senior calleth loud,
The tired heads are raised.
Then down they flop upon the desks
And murmur “Heaven be praised.”
No voice is raised to spoil their sleep,
No sound, but here and there a snore,
They only want to be ignored,
And slumber on for evermore.