My great-great-uncle on mom's dad's side, Willard Strickland, wrote this poem when he was away at war during WWII. The date on the envelope is November 5, 1944.
The G.I. Blues
Sitting on my G.I. bed,
My G.I. hat upon my head,
My G.I. pants, my G.I. shoes,
Everything free, nothing to lose.
G.I. razor, G.I. comb,
But G.I. wish that I was home.
They issue everything we need,
Paper to write on, books to read,
They issue food to make us grow,
But G.I. want a long furlough.
Everything free, nothing to buy,
Your belt, your shoes, your G.I. tie.
Eat your food from a G.I. plate,
Buy your needs at a G.I. rate.
It's G.I. this, and G.I. that,
G.I. haircut, G.I. hat.
Everything here is government issue,
But G.I. would like to be with you.
I go to sleep in a G.I. bed,
On a G.I. pillow, I rest my head.
My blankets they are G.I. too,
Then G.I. sleep and dream of you.
If I come down with G.I. ills,
They'll stuff me full of G.I. pills,
Ointments and drops are G.I. too,
But G.I.'d heal just seeing you.
Now G.I. stands for government issue,
And oh, my darling, G.I. miss you.
And G.I. wish you miss me too,
For G.I. love you, G.I. do.