‘Lucky’ was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. On the other hand, I was born with a wooden stick between my gums and several slivers to boot. That’s the way it has always been. I’m not ‘Lucky’ and I don’t have a swell nickname either.
If I’d been given one, it would probably have been laughable, if not ‘Laughable,’ itself. Yeah, that’s how my so-called fortune runs as ‘Lucky’ is my older brother by a year.
‘Lucky’ throws the rock, I get the beating. I polish the doorstep having ‘missed the boat,’ and ‘Lucky’ gets the girl.
Speaking of ‘missing the boat…’
‘Lucky’ joined the Canadian Army last year and came home looking like a snazzy ‘Foot Slogger,’ the kind everyone’s talking about and the girls swoon over. Meantime, America isn’t getting involved in this fight, though our old man, a staunch Democrat, thinks President Wilson is waiting for the right time to enter the fracas.
At the time that ‘Lucky’ joined, I was too young, but after turning 18 last week, I’ve slipped off to put on the uniform too. It’s been smooth sailing from New York Harbor to Ireland and we’re a happy lot because you can see the shores from our cabin’s single port-hole.
So things are actually looking up, after all I’ve been enjoying a third-class berth on the first-class liner Lusitania, while dreaming of the chance to show those old Hun’s what-for.