Ode to a sten gun

You wicked piece of vicious tin!

Call you a gun?

Don't make me grin.

You're just a bloated piece of pipe.

You couldn't hit a hunk of tripe.

But when you're with me in the night,

I'll tell you, pal, you're just alright!


Each day I wipe you free of dirt.

Your dratted corners tear my shirt.

I cuss at you and call you names,

You're much more trouble than my dames.

But, boy, do I love to hear your yammer

When you're spitting lead in a business manner.


You conceited pile of salvage junk.

I think this prowess talk is bunk.

Yet if I want a wall of lead

Thrown at some Jerry's head

It is to you I raise my hat;

You're a damn good pal... you silly gat!

 by Gnr. S.N. Teed, WW II