This old world is in the lurch;

For we cannot go to church;

And the children cannot roam;

For they now are kept at home;

And they’ve put a good, strong ban

On the moving picture man;

Also made the lodges close,

While we’re in the awful throes

Of the pest the doctors call the Spanish Flu.

 

Yes, the preachers can now pray,

While they have their holiday;

And the teachers have a rest,

Which should give them punch and zest.

But there’s some folks, you can bet, 

Who are doing business, yet;

‘Tis the undertaking man,

And the doctor and his clan,

With the help of all the druggists, fighting the Flu.

 

Many patents sell like cakes,

While the sick man coughs and shakes,

And attempts to make a cure

That is certain and is sure,

Without doctor or a nurse,

Just to help his little purse,

While the wise man telephones

To his good friend, Dock Sawbones,

For he fears he cannot cope with Spanish Flu.

 

Some have toiled and sweat and hewn

With their systems out of tune,

Until now, when danger comes,

Without bells, or horn, or drums,

They are seized and put to bed,

Until countless scores are dead;

For in piling up their wealth

And neglecting self and health,

They are numbered as sad victims of the Flu.

 

It’s a pity and it’s sad 

That a woman, man or lad,

With the warnings they’ve received,

Disregarded, disbelieved,

All the health boards had to say

Of the best and only way 

To provide against disease

That is lurking in a sneeze

From some person who has got this Spanish Flu.

 

Once again, we say to you,

That the best thing one can do

Is to get your system right

For this fearful, bitter fight.

“Preparation” was the word

All this country lately heard

When the war god seemed to threat;

And it is a good word, yet,

When we go against this demon, Spanish Flu.

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