* * *
Dear Farmer Billy—As an honest tiller of the soil, perhaps you can tell me the difference between an apple and a girl?—Ann Arbor.
Sure, you have to squeeze an apple before you can get cider. But with a girl, you have to get “side” ’er before you can squeeze her.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—I live in Milwaukee and a neighbor of mine is always making home beer. Who should I report it to?—Adam Sapple.
Notify the American consul.
* * *
Dear Sir and Captain—My husband, whenever he comes home intoxicated from moonshine liquor, kicks me in the stomach. What would you advise me to do?—Abused Wife.
Turn your back on the brute.
* * *
Dear Skipper—Could you tell me who is the inventor of the loose leaf system?—L. E. Phant.
Eve.
* * *
Dear Captain Jazzbo—I have a sweet girlie, with teeth quite pearly. I took her in my arms one night. She scratched and giggled and tried to bite. Can you guess what’s worrying me?—Hymanjasus.
Your poetry is punk, old trapper, and I’ll answer you, the same—You like to love but you hate to fight with a dirty neck when you monkey-bite.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—I see where you discuss at length the brevity of girls’ attire, but I never see you object in your writings. How do you stand, anyway?—Noonan Knight.
Well, you don’t see me wearing any smoked glasses.
* * *
Dear Skipper Bill—What’s your idea of a fine sight?—Lotta Bull.
I suppose you think I’ll say hosiery, but guess again. My idea of a fine sight is the one I have on my bear hunting rifle.
* * *
Dear Whiz Bang Billy—What’s the most useful food?—Fletcher Eyes.
Chicken. You can eat it before it is born and after it is dead.
* * *
Dear Doctor Billy—What are the three great plagues of the world?—Iva Sharpe Payne.
My expert diagnosis reveals that the three greatest are: Water on the knee, liquor on the hip and woman on the brain. Which Paynes you most?
* * *
Dear Skipper—Do you think it possible to get intoxicated on one-half of one percent beer?—Ringaround A. Rosey.
Sure, two hundred bottles of one-half of one percent equals one hundred percent drunk.
* * *
“What a brave, brave girl Mary is!” said a young man in enthusiastic tones.
“Mary brave? How so?” inquired the young man’s sister.
“Why, at the dance last night,” said the young man, “she was the only girl who kept her seat and remained perfectly cool when the mouse appeared.”
“Pshaw!” said his sister. “That wasn’t bravery. Mary told me afterwards that she had her old garters on.”
* * *
“May I print a kiss upon your lips?”
“Yes, provided you promise not to publish it.”
* * *
The transport had just been torpedoed.
After a little struggle in the moisture, Bill found himself safely within the confines of an empty lifeboat.
Realizing that he was safe himself he began to look around to see who needed assistance.
Observing several men endeavoring to keep afloat nearby, he reached over the side and grabbed two of them by the hair and dragged them into the boat.
Suddenly a bald-headed man appeared alongside the boat. Peering over the side, Bill slapped him on the head and cried angrily: “Gwan down and come up right.”
“Wimmin”
By Jack Andrews.
The ever perplexing, never understanding, and most ancient of mysteries—Woman—is still with us. With but slight variations she is today the same enigma as were her predecessors running back to the beginning of time.
The modern man starts out just about as the cave man did, only he believes he is more accomplished, and capable of penetrating the veil that men of vast experience in dealing with the “deadlier sex,” associate with the Unknown Origin.
It is the incertitude of what Woman will do that brings out the gambling spirit in all of us, makes wise men of some of us, and pessimists of the rest of us.
When you find this type of pessimist, a man who breaks out the hammer as the talk tends toward women—wild and otherwise—just jot it down in your little note book that at some time in his life a little bubble of conceit was pierced by a woman, and a man failed to measure up to the requirements.
There is another class of supposedly male beings who continually rant about the women. They usually exhibit a holier-than-thou attitude when the pleasures of a woman’s society are mentioned, and denounce themas contributors to the undoing of man. They boast of a virtue that stamps them as impotents, superinduced by their own follies, and makes of them living hypocrites, ashamed to acknowledge the truth.
A man who boasts of “never a thought of women” will certainly not be molested by REAL women.
Remember this, my friends, that in the conquest for a woman’s love, it is far better to be audacious, for to profess too great a virtue may cause them to doubt your virility.
* * *
A Robbinsdale school teacher had a class up to spell. They were very young. She pronounced the word “leg.” The young miss who was to spell it was very modest and couldn’t spell it, a big awkward boy blushed furiously when it was passed down to him and the next one spelled it.
“And what is the definition?” she asked, elevating her eyebrows encouragingly.
Nobody knew.
“Why children,” she insisted, “surely you know that? What is it of which I have two and a cow has four?”
There was an awkward pause for just a moment and then a diminutive urchin at the foot of the class yelled out an answer. The answer has not yet appeared in print, but they do say that there was a vacation the rest of that day, while the teacher recovered consciousness.
Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
During the past month, we have received an inquiry from a reader asking us to define a “lounge lizard.” We have nothing of that caliber in this rural community of Robbinsdale. Most of us are poor financially, but strong in the knowledge of Mother Nature and the homely ways of the farm and fireside. During the midst of our studies, we journeyed through Shakespeare’s immortal “King Lear,” and in the scene before Gloucester’s castle, we find the following:
Kent: Fellow, I know thee.Oswald: What does thou know me for?Kent: A knave, a rascal; and an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action taking knave, a glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue. One that would’st be a bawd in the way of good service, and are nothing but the mad composition of a knave, beggar, coward, and the son and heir of a mongrel; one whom I would beat into a clamoured whining if thou denyest the least syllable of thy addition.
Kent: Fellow, I know thee.
Oswald: What does thou know me for?
Kent: A knave, a rascal; and an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action taking knave, a glass-gazing, super-serviceable, finical rogue. One that would’st be a bawd in the way of good service, and are nothing but the mad composition of a knave, beggar, coward, and the son and heir of a mongrel; one whom I would beat into a clamoured whining if thou denyest the least syllable of thy addition.
We have omitted some expressions from this denunciation. We have deliberately weakened it. We cannot find it in our soul possible to condemn any fellow man in such language as Shakespeare uses. We follow the quaint philosophy that every man has a redeemingquality and that none combines the bald badness which Kent ascribes to Oswald. In our community, a man denounces another in few words. We shake our fist and call our enemy “a blankey-blank-son-of-a-blank.” Our language may not be as polished as Shakespeare, but it seems to satisfy the vendor.
* * *
Wonder what a dog thinks about while he sits hours at a time watching his master bending over a battered desk pecking with two pitchfork-blistered fingers at a typewriter model of 1898?
Have you ever stopped to consider the dog? I’ll admit that in the eight years my collie breed “Shep” has been my faithful companion, I have never stopped to give him thanks or to reason with myself why this dumb beast should love me so.
As I work here by my old desk in Whiz Bang headquarters, “Shep” sits on his hind quarters panting. Occasionally, as I turn in a friendly glance, he points his nose as if inviting an affectionate pat. “Shep” seems to approve of my magazine. I really believe he understands what it is. He seems never so happy or affectionate as when he sits beside me in my study. When I’m in the field he saunters about, paying little attention to me, but here in the study he seems vitally and keenly interested. His attitude brings me to Senator Vest’s plea for a dog.
“The best friend a man can have in this world may turn against him,” said the senator. “His son or daughter, whom he has raised with kind and loving care, mayprove ungrateful, those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name, may become traitors to our faith. The money a man has, he may lose; it flies away from him when he perhaps needs it most. A man’s reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. Those who are prone to fall on their knees and do us honor when success is with us, may be the first to cast the stone of malice when failure settles its clouds upon our heads. The one absolutely unselfish friend a man can have in this selfish world, is his dog.
“A man’s dog stands by him, in health and in sickness, in poverty and in wealth; he will sleep on the cold ground, when the wintry winds blow and the snow drives fiercely, if only he may be near his master’s side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer him; he will lick the wounds and the sores that come from an encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince.
“If fortune drives the master forth, an outcast into the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than to accompany him, to guard against dangers, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all takes place, and death takes the master in its embrace, and his body is laid away in the cold ground; no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will be found the faithful dog, his head between his paws, his eyes open yet sad, in alert watchfulness. Ever faithful unto death.”
* * *
Grandmother—“Come here, Diploma.”
Visitor—“That’s a funny name for your grandchild. Why do you call her that?”
“You see, I sent my daughter to one of those nawthern seminaries and that’s all she brought back.”
* * *
Electrical appliances have superseded steam,Old time sailing vessels are an antiquated dream;We have our horseless carriages driven by the rich,Our ladies wear silk stockings but never take a stitch;We have wireless telegraphy which flies o’er land and sea,We play upon the piano but never touch a key;The belly-ache of former days is appendicitis now,And we are eating creamery butter that never saw a cow.Though progression is our motto and modern times have come to stay,Thank God! We raise our babies—In the good old fashioned way.
Electrical appliances have superseded steam,Old time sailing vessels are an antiquated dream;We have our horseless carriages driven by the rich,Our ladies wear silk stockings but never take a stitch;We have wireless telegraphy which flies o’er land and sea,We play upon the piano but never touch a key;The belly-ache of former days is appendicitis now,And we are eating creamery butter that never saw a cow.Though progression is our motto and modern times have come to stay,Thank God! We raise our babies—In the good old fashioned way.
Electrical appliances have superseded steam,Old time sailing vessels are an antiquated dream;We have our horseless carriages driven by the rich,Our ladies wear silk stockings but never take a stitch;We have wireless telegraphy which flies o’er land and sea,We play upon the piano but never touch a key;The belly-ache of former days is appendicitis now,And we are eating creamery butter that never saw a cow.Though progression is our motto and modern times have come to stay,Thank God! We raise our babies—In the good old fashioned way.
Electrical appliances have superseded steam,
Old time sailing vessels are an antiquated dream;
We have our horseless carriages driven by the rich,
Our ladies wear silk stockings but never take a stitch;
We have wireless telegraphy which flies o’er land and sea,
We play upon the piano but never touch a key;
The belly-ache of former days is appendicitis now,
And we are eating creamery butter that never saw a cow.
Though progression is our motto and modern times have come to stay,
Thank God! We raise our babies—
In the good old fashioned way.
* * *
Pat and Mike walked into a drug store and said they wanted something to make them feel young again. The druggist gave them a well known remedy, and Pat and Mike each took a swallow and started out.
A block down the street they took another swallow.
“I feel foive years younger,” said Pat.
“Begorra, I feel like a boy,” said Mike.
A few blocks farther Pat said: “Bejabers, Mike, don’t drink another drop of that stuff. I’ve gone back to infancy.”
Smokehouse Poetry
Lasca, the rhythmic tale of a girl of the Rio Grande and the stampede pictured by Paul Desprez will lead the Smokehouse Poetry for April. With it also will be “In Flanders Field,” by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCray, which is being published after many requests. Colonel McCray’s simple song of tragedy was the Marsellaise of the great world war. The author was a surgeon with the Canadian Expeditionary forces and wrote the poem during the battle of Ypres.
Lasca, the rhythmic tale of a girl of the Rio Grande and the stampede pictured by Paul Desprez will lead the Smokehouse Poetry for April. With it also will be “In Flanders Field,” by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCray, which is being published after many requests. Colonel McCray’s simple song of tragedy was the Marsellaise of the great world war. The author was a surgeon with the Canadian Expeditionary forces and wrote the poem during the battle of Ypres.
By Robert W. Service.
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon,The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune;Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,While watching his luck was the light of his love.The Lady—that was known as Lou.When out of the night which was fifty belowAnd into the din and the glareThere stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks,Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.He looked like a man with one foot in the graveAnd scarcely the strength of a louse,As he tilted a poke of dust on the barAnd called for the drinks for the house.There was none could place the stranger’s face,Though we searched ourselves for a clew;But we drank to his health, and the last to drink,Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.There are men that somehow just grip your eyesAnd hold them hard like a spell,And such was he for he looked to meLike a man who had lived in hell.With a face most hair, and a glassy stareLike a dog whose day is doneAs he watered the green stuff in his glassAnd the drops fell one by one.Then I got to figuring who he wasAnd wondering what he’d doWhen I turned, and there stood watching himWas the Lady, who was known as Lou.The stranger’s eyes wandered round the roomAnd seemed in a kind of a dazeTill at last that old piano fellIn the way of his wandering gaze.The Rag-time Kid was having a drinkThere was no one else on the stoolAnd the stranger stumbled across the roomAnd flopped down there like a fool.In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirtHe sat and I seen him swayWith a talon hand he clutched the keysGod, but that man could play.Were you ever out on the great alone,When the night was awful clearAnd the icy mountains held you inWith a silence that you most could hear.With only the howl of a timber wolfAs you camped out there in the coldA half-dead thing in a stark dead worldClean mad, for the muck, called gold.While high overhead green, yellow, and redThe Northern lights swept in barsThen you’ve a hunch what the music meantHunger night, and the stars.Hunger, not of the belly kindThat’s banished with bacon and beans.But the gnawing hunger of a lonely manFor a home, and all that it means.For a fireside far, from the cares that areFour walls and a roof aboveBut oh, so cram full of cozy joyAnd crowned with a woman’s love.A woman dearer than all the worldAnd true as heaven is trueGod, how ghastly she looks through her rougeThe Lady, who was known as Lou.The music almost died away, so softThat you scarce could hear,And you felt that your life had been lootedOf all that it once held dear.That someone had stolen the woman you lovedAnd her love was a devil’s lieAnd your guts were gone and the best for youWas to crawl away and die.’Twas the crowning glory of a heart’s dispairAnd it thrilled you through and throughI guess I’ll make it a spread MisereSaid Dangerous Dan McGrew.The music almost died awayThen oft burst like a pent-up floodAnd it seemed to say, repay, repayAnd your eyes went blind with blood.And the thought came back like an ancient wrongAnd it stung like a frozen lashAnd the lust awoke, to kill, to kill,And the music stopped with a flash.The stranger turned and his eyes they burnedIn a most peculiar wayIn a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirtHe sat and I seen him sway.Then, his lips went in in a kind of grinAnd he spoke and his voice was strongAnd boys, said he, you don’t know meAnd none of you care a Damn.But I want to state, and my words are straightAnd I’ll bet my poke their trueThat one of you is a “Hound of Hell”And that one is Dan McGrew.Then I ducked my head and the lights went outAnd two guns blazed in the darkThen the lights went up and a woman screamedAnd two men lay stiff and stark.Pitched on his head and pumped full of leadLay Dangerous Dan McGrew,While the man from the creeks, lay crushed to the breastOf the Lady that was known as Lou.These are the simple facts of the caseAnd I guess I ought to knowThey said that the stranger was crazed with hoochAnd I’m not denying it’s so.I’m not so wise as there lawyer guysBut strictly between us twoThe woman that kissed him and pinched his pokeWas the Lady, that was known as Lou.
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon,The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune;Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,While watching his luck was the light of his love.The Lady—that was known as Lou.When out of the night which was fifty belowAnd into the din and the glareThere stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks,Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.He looked like a man with one foot in the graveAnd scarcely the strength of a louse,As he tilted a poke of dust on the barAnd called for the drinks for the house.There was none could place the stranger’s face,Though we searched ourselves for a clew;But we drank to his health, and the last to drink,Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.There are men that somehow just grip your eyesAnd hold them hard like a spell,And such was he for he looked to meLike a man who had lived in hell.With a face most hair, and a glassy stareLike a dog whose day is doneAs he watered the green stuff in his glassAnd the drops fell one by one.Then I got to figuring who he wasAnd wondering what he’d doWhen I turned, and there stood watching himWas the Lady, who was known as Lou.The stranger’s eyes wandered round the roomAnd seemed in a kind of a dazeTill at last that old piano fellIn the way of his wandering gaze.The Rag-time Kid was having a drinkThere was no one else on the stoolAnd the stranger stumbled across the roomAnd flopped down there like a fool.In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirtHe sat and I seen him swayWith a talon hand he clutched the keysGod, but that man could play.Were you ever out on the great alone,When the night was awful clearAnd the icy mountains held you inWith a silence that you most could hear.With only the howl of a timber wolfAs you camped out there in the coldA half-dead thing in a stark dead worldClean mad, for the muck, called gold.While high overhead green, yellow, and redThe Northern lights swept in barsThen you’ve a hunch what the music meantHunger night, and the stars.Hunger, not of the belly kindThat’s banished with bacon and beans.But the gnawing hunger of a lonely manFor a home, and all that it means.For a fireside far, from the cares that areFour walls and a roof aboveBut oh, so cram full of cozy joyAnd crowned with a woman’s love.A woman dearer than all the worldAnd true as heaven is trueGod, how ghastly she looks through her rougeThe Lady, who was known as Lou.The music almost died away, so softThat you scarce could hear,And you felt that your life had been lootedOf all that it once held dear.That someone had stolen the woman you lovedAnd her love was a devil’s lieAnd your guts were gone and the best for youWas to crawl away and die.’Twas the crowning glory of a heart’s dispairAnd it thrilled you through and throughI guess I’ll make it a spread MisereSaid Dangerous Dan McGrew.The music almost died awayThen oft burst like a pent-up floodAnd it seemed to say, repay, repayAnd your eyes went blind with blood.And the thought came back like an ancient wrongAnd it stung like a frozen lashAnd the lust awoke, to kill, to kill,And the music stopped with a flash.The stranger turned and his eyes they burnedIn a most peculiar wayIn a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirtHe sat and I seen him sway.Then, his lips went in in a kind of grinAnd he spoke and his voice was strongAnd boys, said he, you don’t know meAnd none of you care a Damn.But I want to state, and my words are straightAnd I’ll bet my poke their trueThat one of you is a “Hound of Hell”And that one is Dan McGrew.Then I ducked my head and the lights went outAnd two guns blazed in the darkThen the lights went up and a woman screamedAnd two men lay stiff and stark.Pitched on his head and pumped full of leadLay Dangerous Dan McGrew,While the man from the creeks, lay crushed to the breastOf the Lady that was known as Lou.These are the simple facts of the caseAnd I guess I ought to knowThey said that the stranger was crazed with hoochAnd I’m not denying it’s so.I’m not so wise as there lawyer guysBut strictly between us twoThe woman that kissed him and pinched his pokeWas the Lady, that was known as Lou.
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon,The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune;Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,While watching his luck was the light of his love.The Lady—that was known as Lou.
A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon,
The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While watching his luck was the light of his love.
The Lady—that was known as Lou.
When out of the night which was fifty belowAnd into the din and the glareThere stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks,Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
When out of the night which was fifty below
And into the din and the glare
There stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks,
Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with one foot in the graveAnd scarcely the strength of a louse,As he tilted a poke of dust on the barAnd called for the drinks for the house.
He looked like a man with one foot in the grave
And scarcely the strength of a louse,
As he tilted a poke of dust on the bar
And called for the drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger’s face,Though we searched ourselves for a clew;But we drank to his health, and the last to drink,Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There was none could place the stranger’s face,
Though we searched ourselves for a clew;
But we drank to his health, and the last to drink,
Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.
There are men that somehow just grip your eyesAnd hold them hard like a spell,And such was he for he looked to meLike a man who had lived in hell.
There are men that somehow just grip your eyes
And hold them hard like a spell,
And such was he for he looked to me
Like a man who had lived in hell.
With a face most hair, and a glassy stareLike a dog whose day is doneAs he watered the green stuff in his glassAnd the drops fell one by one.
With a face most hair, and a glassy stare
Like a dog whose day is done
As he watered the green stuff in his glass
And the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figuring who he wasAnd wondering what he’d doWhen I turned, and there stood watching himWas the Lady, who was known as Lou.
Then I got to figuring who he was
And wondering what he’d do
When I turned, and there stood watching him
Was the Lady, who was known as Lou.
The stranger’s eyes wandered round the roomAnd seemed in a kind of a dazeTill at last that old piano fellIn the way of his wandering gaze.
The stranger’s eyes wandered round the room
And seemed in a kind of a daze
Till at last that old piano fell
In the way of his wandering gaze.
The Rag-time Kid was having a drinkThere was no one else on the stoolAnd the stranger stumbled across the roomAnd flopped down there like a fool.
The Rag-time Kid was having a drink
There was no one else on the stool
And the stranger stumbled across the room
And flopped down there like a fool.
In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirtHe sat and I seen him swayWith a talon hand he clutched the keysGod, but that man could play.
In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt
He sat and I seen him sway
With a talon hand he clutched the keys
God, but that man could play.
Were you ever out on the great alone,When the night was awful clearAnd the icy mountains held you inWith a silence that you most could hear.
Were you ever out on the great alone,
When the night was awful clear
And the icy mountains held you in
With a silence that you most could hear.
With only the howl of a timber wolfAs you camped out there in the coldA half-dead thing in a stark dead worldClean mad, for the muck, called gold.
With only the howl of a timber wolf
As you camped out there in the cold
A half-dead thing in a stark dead world
Clean mad, for the muck, called gold.
While high overhead green, yellow, and redThe Northern lights swept in barsThen you’ve a hunch what the music meantHunger night, and the stars.
While high overhead green, yellow, and red
The Northern lights swept in bars
Then you’ve a hunch what the music meant
Hunger night, and the stars.
Hunger, not of the belly kindThat’s banished with bacon and beans.But the gnawing hunger of a lonely manFor a home, and all that it means.
Hunger, not of the belly kind
That’s banished with bacon and beans.
But the gnawing hunger of a lonely man
For a home, and all that it means.
For a fireside far, from the cares that areFour walls and a roof aboveBut oh, so cram full of cozy joyAnd crowned with a woman’s love.
For a fireside far, from the cares that are
Four walls and a roof above
But oh, so cram full of cozy joy
And crowned with a woman’s love.
A woman dearer than all the worldAnd true as heaven is trueGod, how ghastly she looks through her rougeThe Lady, who was known as Lou.
A woman dearer than all the world
And true as heaven is true
God, how ghastly she looks through her rouge
The Lady, who was known as Lou.
The music almost died away, so softThat you scarce could hear,And you felt that your life had been lootedOf all that it once held dear.
The music almost died away, so soft
That you scarce could hear,
And you felt that your life had been looted
Of all that it once held dear.
That someone had stolen the woman you lovedAnd her love was a devil’s lieAnd your guts were gone and the best for youWas to crawl away and die.
That someone had stolen the woman you loved
And her love was a devil’s lie
And your guts were gone and the best for you
Was to crawl away and die.
’Twas the crowning glory of a heart’s dispairAnd it thrilled you through and throughI guess I’ll make it a spread MisereSaid Dangerous Dan McGrew.
’Twas the crowning glory of a heart’s dispair
And it thrilled you through and through
I guess I’ll make it a spread Misere
Said Dangerous Dan McGrew.
The music almost died awayThen oft burst like a pent-up floodAnd it seemed to say, repay, repayAnd your eyes went blind with blood.
The music almost died away
Then oft burst like a pent-up flood
And it seemed to say, repay, repay
And your eyes went blind with blood.
And the thought came back like an ancient wrongAnd it stung like a frozen lashAnd the lust awoke, to kill, to kill,And the music stopped with a flash.
And the thought came back like an ancient wrong
And it stung like a frozen lash
And the lust awoke, to kill, to kill,
And the music stopped with a flash.
The stranger turned and his eyes they burnedIn a most peculiar wayIn a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirtHe sat and I seen him sway.
The stranger turned and his eyes they burned
In a most peculiar way
In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt
He sat and I seen him sway.
Then, his lips went in in a kind of grinAnd he spoke and his voice was strongAnd boys, said he, you don’t know meAnd none of you care a Damn.
Then, his lips went in in a kind of grin
And he spoke and his voice was strong
And boys, said he, you don’t know me
And none of you care a Damn.
But I want to state, and my words are straightAnd I’ll bet my poke their trueThat one of you is a “Hound of Hell”And that one is Dan McGrew.
But I want to state, and my words are straight
And I’ll bet my poke their true
That one of you is a “Hound of Hell”
And that one is Dan McGrew.
Then I ducked my head and the lights went outAnd two guns blazed in the darkThen the lights went up and a woman screamedAnd two men lay stiff and stark.
Then I ducked my head and the lights went out
And two guns blazed in the dark
Then the lights went up and a woman screamed
And two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head and pumped full of leadLay Dangerous Dan McGrew,While the man from the creeks, lay crushed to the breastOf the Lady that was known as Lou.
Pitched on his head and pumped full of lead
Lay Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks, lay crushed to the breast
Of the Lady that was known as Lou.
These are the simple facts of the caseAnd I guess I ought to knowThey said that the stranger was crazed with hoochAnd I’m not denying it’s so.
These are the simple facts of the case
And I guess I ought to know
They said that the stranger was crazed with hooch
And I’m not denying it’s so.
I’m not so wise as there lawyer guysBut strictly between us twoThe woman that kissed him and pinched his pokeWas the Lady, that was known as Lou.
I’m not so wise as there lawyer guys
But strictly between us two
The woman that kissed him and pinched his poke
Was the Lady, that was known as Lou.
* * *
While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing;Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm.If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season,At my door, an endless line would straightway form,Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid,It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare,For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar,That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters,By arresting them and placing them in jail;Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated,Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail,So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a partyOf my own without a solitary care,Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers,In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing;Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm.If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season,At my door, an endless line would straightway form,Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid,It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare,For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar,That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters,By arresting them and placing them in jail;Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated,Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail,So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a partyOf my own without a solitary care,Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers,In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing;Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm.If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season,At my door, an endless line would straightway form,Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid,It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare,For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar,That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing;
Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm.
If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season,
At my door, an endless line would straightway form,
Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid,
It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare,
For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar,
That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters,By arresting them and placing them in jail;Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated,Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail,So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a partyOf my own without a solitary care,Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers,In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters,
By arresting them and placing them in jail;
Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated,
Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail,
So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a party
Of my own without a solitary care,
Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers,
In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
* * *
When the Whiz Bang first made its debut into the world in 1919, we published the poem, “I Don’t.” Now steps up a contributor and offers an answer to it. Both of them have punch and pep, so we are offering these twin sisters of poetic mirth for your approval herewith.—The Editor.
My mama told me not to smoke—I Don’t.Nor listen to a naughty joke—I Don’t.They made it clear I must not winkAt handsome men nor even thinkAbout intoxicating drink—I Don’t.To dance and flirt is very wrong—I Don’t.Wild girls chase men, wine and song—I Don’t.I kiss no boys, not even one.I do not know how it is done.You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun—I Don’t.
My mama told me not to smoke—I Don’t.Nor listen to a naughty joke—I Don’t.They made it clear I must not winkAt handsome men nor even thinkAbout intoxicating drink—I Don’t.To dance and flirt is very wrong—I Don’t.Wild girls chase men, wine and song—I Don’t.I kiss no boys, not even one.I do not know how it is done.You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun—I Don’t.
My mama told me not to smoke—I Don’t.Nor listen to a naughty joke—I Don’t.They made it clear I must not winkAt handsome men nor even thinkAbout intoxicating drink—I Don’t.
My mama told me not to smoke—
I Don’t.
Nor listen to a naughty joke—
I Don’t.
They made it clear I must not wink
At handsome men nor even think
About intoxicating drink—
I Don’t.
To dance and flirt is very wrong—I Don’t.Wild girls chase men, wine and song—I Don’t.I kiss no boys, not even one.I do not know how it is done.You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun—I Don’t.
To dance and flirt is very wrong—
I Don’t.
Wild girls chase men, wine and song—
I Don’t.
I kiss no boys, not even one.
I do not know how it is done.
You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun—
I Don’t.
* * *
When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own,With none to gossip about it;Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize,With a velvety softness about it;Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm,With a wonderful plumpness about it;Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own,With none to gossip about it;Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize,With a velvety softness about it;Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm,With a wonderful plumpness about it;Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own,With none to gossip about it;Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own,
With none to gossip about it;
Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone;
Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize,With a velvety softness about it;Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize,
With a velvety softness about it;
Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze;
Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm,With a wonderful plumpness about it;Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm;Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm,
With a wonderful plumpness about it;
Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm;
Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.
* * *
By Mrs. Henry Mobley.
My husband’s gone and left meIn the hills of Brown;Forsaken me on account ofOthers of this little town.He’s always been a blacksmith;I treated the man well;The last words he told meWere, I’d better go to hell.It was awful hard to swallow,Hard to get it down.Now he’s forsaken me forOthers of this little town.He wants a younger womanIn his older day;He says I’m getting old,And am turning gray.I always tried to treat him rightAnd do the best I could,But the worst words he couldSay to me always done him good.He is getting old andI am getting gray;But he’ll see the time he’ll wishHe hadn’t went away.He’s gone and left meAnd left me all alone;Perhaps he’ll take one with himHe can call his own.He’s gone and left meIn the hills of Brown;Forsaken me on account ofOthers of this little town.He’s mine; let him go;God bless him where’er he may be;He can travel the wide world overAnd never find one like me.
My husband’s gone and left meIn the hills of Brown;Forsaken me on account ofOthers of this little town.He’s always been a blacksmith;I treated the man well;The last words he told meWere, I’d better go to hell.It was awful hard to swallow,Hard to get it down.Now he’s forsaken me forOthers of this little town.He wants a younger womanIn his older day;He says I’m getting old,And am turning gray.I always tried to treat him rightAnd do the best I could,But the worst words he couldSay to me always done him good.He is getting old andI am getting gray;But he’ll see the time he’ll wishHe hadn’t went away.He’s gone and left meAnd left me all alone;Perhaps he’ll take one with himHe can call his own.He’s gone and left meIn the hills of Brown;Forsaken me on account ofOthers of this little town.He’s mine; let him go;God bless him where’er he may be;He can travel the wide world overAnd never find one like me.
My husband’s gone and left meIn the hills of Brown;Forsaken me on account ofOthers of this little town.
My husband’s gone and left me
In the hills of Brown;
Forsaken me on account of
Others of this little town.
He’s always been a blacksmith;I treated the man well;The last words he told meWere, I’d better go to hell.
He’s always been a blacksmith;
I treated the man well;
The last words he told me
Were, I’d better go to hell.
It was awful hard to swallow,Hard to get it down.Now he’s forsaken me forOthers of this little town.
It was awful hard to swallow,
Hard to get it down.
Now he’s forsaken me for
Others of this little town.
He wants a younger womanIn his older day;He says I’m getting old,And am turning gray.
He wants a younger woman
In his older day;
He says I’m getting old,
And am turning gray.
I always tried to treat him rightAnd do the best I could,But the worst words he couldSay to me always done him good.
I always tried to treat him right
And do the best I could,
But the worst words he could
Say to me always done him good.
He is getting old andI am getting gray;But he’ll see the time he’ll wishHe hadn’t went away.
He is getting old and
I am getting gray;
But he’ll see the time he’ll wish
He hadn’t went away.
He’s gone and left meAnd left me all alone;Perhaps he’ll take one with himHe can call his own.
He’s gone and left me
And left me all alone;
Perhaps he’ll take one with him
He can call his own.
He’s gone and left meIn the hills of Brown;Forsaken me on account ofOthers of this little town.
He’s gone and left me
In the hills of Brown;
Forsaken me on account of
Others of this little town.
He’s mine; let him go;God bless him where’er he may be;He can travel the wide world overAnd never find one like me.
He’s mine; let him go;
God bless him where’er he may be;
He can travel the wide world over
And never find one like me.
* * *
’Twas dawn by a western water tank,One cold November day;There in an open boxcar,A dying hobo lay.His partner stood beside him,With a sadly drooping head,Listening to the last wordsThat the dying hobo said.Good-by old pal, I’m goingTo a land where all is bright,Where handouts grow in the bushes,And you can sleep out every night.The dying hobo’s head dropped back,And as he sang his last refrain,His partner stole his shoes and socksAnd grabbed an eastbound train.
’Twas dawn by a western water tank,One cold November day;There in an open boxcar,A dying hobo lay.His partner stood beside him,With a sadly drooping head,Listening to the last wordsThat the dying hobo said.Good-by old pal, I’m goingTo a land where all is bright,Where handouts grow in the bushes,And you can sleep out every night.The dying hobo’s head dropped back,And as he sang his last refrain,His partner stole his shoes and socksAnd grabbed an eastbound train.
’Twas dawn by a western water tank,One cold November day;There in an open boxcar,A dying hobo lay.
’Twas dawn by a western water tank,
One cold November day;
There in an open boxcar,
A dying hobo lay.
His partner stood beside him,With a sadly drooping head,Listening to the last wordsThat the dying hobo said.
His partner stood beside him,
With a sadly drooping head,
Listening to the last words
That the dying hobo said.
Good-by old pal, I’m goingTo a land where all is bright,Where handouts grow in the bushes,And you can sleep out every night.
Good-by old pal, I’m going
To a land where all is bright,
Where handouts grow in the bushes,
And you can sleep out every night.
The dying hobo’s head dropped back,And as he sang his last refrain,His partner stole his shoes and socksAnd grabbed an eastbound train.
The dying hobo’s head dropped back,
And as he sang his last refrain,
His partner stole his shoes and socks
And grabbed an eastbound train.
* * *
Said a giddy old maid named Biddy McHugh,I’d like to be good and I’d like to be true,For it’s good to be good,But I’m not made of wood,Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, no wonder I’m blue.
Said a giddy old maid named Biddy McHugh,I’d like to be good and I’d like to be true,For it’s good to be good,But I’m not made of wood,Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, no wonder I’m blue.
Said a giddy old maid named Biddy McHugh,I’d like to be good and I’d like to be true,For it’s good to be good,But I’m not made of wood,Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, no wonder I’m blue.
Said a giddy old maid named Biddy McHugh,
I’d like to be good and I’d like to be true,
For it’s good to be good,
But I’m not made of wood,
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, no wonder I’m blue.
* * *
By N. P. Willis.
The shadows lay along Broadway,’Twas near the twilight tide—And slowly there a lady fairWas walking in her pride.Alone walked she; but viewlessly,Walked spirits at her side.Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,And honor charmed the air,And all astir looked kind on her,And called her good and fair—For all God ever gave to herShe kept with chary care.She kept with care her beauties rareFrom lovers warm and true—For her heart was cold to all but gold,And the rich came not to woo—But honored well are charms to sellIf rites the SELLING do.Now walking there was one more fair—A slight girl, lily-pale;And she had unseen companyTo make the spirit quail—’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,And nothing could avail.No mercy now can clear her brow,For this world’s peace to pray;For, as Love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman’s heart gave way!—But the sin forgiven by Christ in HeavenBy man is cursed alway.
The shadows lay along Broadway,’Twas near the twilight tide—And slowly there a lady fairWas walking in her pride.Alone walked she; but viewlessly,Walked spirits at her side.Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,And honor charmed the air,And all astir looked kind on her,And called her good and fair—For all God ever gave to herShe kept with chary care.She kept with care her beauties rareFrom lovers warm and true—For her heart was cold to all but gold,And the rich came not to woo—But honored well are charms to sellIf rites the SELLING do.Now walking there was one more fair—A slight girl, lily-pale;And she had unseen companyTo make the spirit quail—’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,And nothing could avail.No mercy now can clear her brow,For this world’s peace to pray;For, as Love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman’s heart gave way!—But the sin forgiven by Christ in HeavenBy man is cursed alway.
The shadows lay along Broadway,’Twas near the twilight tide—And slowly there a lady fairWas walking in her pride.Alone walked she; but viewlessly,Walked spirits at her side.
The shadows lay along Broadway,
’Twas near the twilight tide—
And slowly there a lady fair
Was walking in her pride.
Alone walked she; but viewlessly,
Walked spirits at her side.
Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,And honor charmed the air,And all astir looked kind on her,And called her good and fair—For all God ever gave to herShe kept with chary care.
Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,
And honor charmed the air,
And all astir looked kind on her,
And called her good and fair—
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.
She kept with care her beauties rareFrom lovers warm and true—For her heart was cold to all but gold,And the rich came not to woo—But honored well are charms to sellIf rites the SELLING do.
She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true—
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo—
But honored well are charms to sell
If rites the SELLING do.
Now walking there was one more fair—A slight girl, lily-pale;And she had unseen companyTo make the spirit quail—’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,And nothing could avail.
Now walking there was one more fair—
A slight girl, lily-pale;
And she had unseen company
To make the spirit quail—
’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,
And nothing could avail.
No mercy now can clear her brow,For this world’s peace to pray;For, as Love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,Her woman’s heart gave way!—But the sin forgiven by Christ in HeavenBy man is cursed alway.
No mercy now can clear her brow,
For this world’s peace to pray;
For, as Love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman’s heart gave way!—
But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven
By man is cursed alway.
* * *
Ring around the rosy,Cellar full of booze;We can have a partyAny time we choose.
Ring around the rosy,Cellar full of booze;We can have a partyAny time we choose.
Ring around the rosy,Cellar full of booze;We can have a partyAny time we choose.
Ring around the rosy,
Cellar full of booze;
We can have a party
Any time we choose.
* * *
’Twas the night before pay day and all through my jeansI searched but in vain for the price of some beans.Not a quarter was stirring—not even a jit;The coin was off-duty—milled edges had quit.Move forward! Move forward! Oh time, in thy flight,Make it tomorrow—just for tonight.
’Twas the night before pay day and all through my jeansI searched but in vain for the price of some beans.Not a quarter was stirring—not even a jit;The coin was off-duty—milled edges had quit.Move forward! Move forward! Oh time, in thy flight,Make it tomorrow—just for tonight.
’Twas the night before pay day and all through my jeansI searched but in vain for the price of some beans.Not a quarter was stirring—not even a jit;The coin was off-duty—milled edges had quit.Move forward! Move forward! Oh time, in thy flight,Make it tomorrow—just for tonight.
’Twas the night before pay day and all through my jeans
I searched but in vain for the price of some beans.
Not a quarter was stirring—not even a jit;
The coin was off-duty—milled edges had quit.
Move forward! Move forward! Oh time, in thy flight,
Make it tomorrow—just for tonight.
* * *
Hubby came home, tangle-footed,His wifie met him at the door,Grabbed the bottle from his pocket—“Empty? Go and get some more!”
Hubby came home, tangle-footed,His wifie met him at the door,Grabbed the bottle from his pocket—“Empty? Go and get some more!”
Hubby came home, tangle-footed,His wifie met him at the door,Grabbed the bottle from his pocket—“Empty? Go and get some more!”
Hubby came home, tangle-footed,
His wifie met him at the door,
Grabbed the bottle from his pocket—
“Empty? Go and get some more!”
* * *
Irene Talbot, skillful typist,Works for Dave A. Masterbilt.Writes a neat and snappy letter,Marks it in this way: “DAM/IT.”
Irene Talbot, skillful typist,Works for Dave A. Masterbilt.Writes a neat and snappy letter,Marks it in this way: “DAM/IT.”
Irene Talbot, skillful typist,Works for Dave A. Masterbilt.Writes a neat and snappy letter,Marks it in this way: “DAM/IT.”
Irene Talbot, skillful typist,
Works for Dave A. Masterbilt.
Writes a neat and snappy letter,
Marks it in this way: “DAM/IT.”
* * *
By O. D. Copeland.
I have read of the death of the martyrs; the story of Peter and Paul,The story of Luther and Calvin—I respect and honor them all;And also old Thomas and Stephen, honest and faithful men,And I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus, and expect to read it again,I’ve read of the Good Samaritan, of charity’s lesson begun,And my heart goes out in great pity to the wayward, prodigal son.All are so glad to welcome him, so quick to forget and forgive,It makes no difference what he has done, if only comes back to live;They have always prayed for the prodigal boy since ever the world begun,The joy, the glory, forgiveness of the returning wayward son,But poets seem to forget to write of the saddest thing in the world—They are not so eager to welcome back the poor little prodigal girl.Just why she has turned out crooked—she happened to strike “the right one,”Who had the slick tongue of a Judas—and that was your prodigal son;Though the boy is upheld and forgiven, it is common all over the world,That you scornfully point out for gossip the poor little prodigal girl.There is nothing so truly pathetic as the life of the maidens who fall,And if you search down to the bottom, you will find man the cause of it all.But he is led back in society and nursed with the tenderest care,Held up to the world as a hero, and mentioned in fervent prayer,While she is cast out from her loved ones; out in the hard, cruel world,And everyone points out and scorns her, the poor little prodigal girl,Now, as has been said quite often, and we will repeat it again,That the lowest of fallen women are better than most of the men.
I have read of the death of the martyrs; the story of Peter and Paul,The story of Luther and Calvin—I respect and honor them all;And also old Thomas and Stephen, honest and faithful men,And I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus, and expect to read it again,I’ve read of the Good Samaritan, of charity’s lesson begun,And my heart goes out in great pity to the wayward, prodigal son.All are so glad to welcome him, so quick to forget and forgive,It makes no difference what he has done, if only comes back to live;They have always prayed for the prodigal boy since ever the world begun,The joy, the glory, forgiveness of the returning wayward son,But poets seem to forget to write of the saddest thing in the world—They are not so eager to welcome back the poor little prodigal girl.Just why she has turned out crooked—she happened to strike “the right one,”Who had the slick tongue of a Judas—and that was your prodigal son;Though the boy is upheld and forgiven, it is common all over the world,That you scornfully point out for gossip the poor little prodigal girl.There is nothing so truly pathetic as the life of the maidens who fall,And if you search down to the bottom, you will find man the cause of it all.But he is led back in society and nursed with the tenderest care,Held up to the world as a hero, and mentioned in fervent prayer,While she is cast out from her loved ones; out in the hard, cruel world,And everyone points out and scorns her, the poor little prodigal girl,Now, as has been said quite often, and we will repeat it again,That the lowest of fallen women are better than most of the men.
I have read of the death of the martyrs; the story of Peter and Paul,The story of Luther and Calvin—I respect and honor them all;And also old Thomas and Stephen, honest and faithful men,And I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus, and expect to read it again,I’ve read of the Good Samaritan, of charity’s lesson begun,And my heart goes out in great pity to the wayward, prodigal son.
I have read of the death of the martyrs; the story of Peter and Paul,
The story of Luther and Calvin—I respect and honor them all;
And also old Thomas and Stephen, honest and faithful men,
And I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus, and expect to read it again,
I’ve read of the Good Samaritan, of charity’s lesson begun,
And my heart goes out in great pity to the wayward, prodigal son.
All are so glad to welcome him, so quick to forget and forgive,It makes no difference what he has done, if only comes back to live;They have always prayed for the prodigal boy since ever the world begun,The joy, the glory, forgiveness of the returning wayward son,But poets seem to forget to write of the saddest thing in the world—They are not so eager to welcome back the poor little prodigal girl.
All are so glad to welcome him, so quick to forget and forgive,
It makes no difference what he has done, if only comes back to live;
They have always prayed for the prodigal boy since ever the world begun,
The joy, the glory, forgiveness of the returning wayward son,
But poets seem to forget to write of the saddest thing in the world—
They are not so eager to welcome back the poor little prodigal girl.
Just why she has turned out crooked—she happened to strike “the right one,”Who had the slick tongue of a Judas—and that was your prodigal son;Though the boy is upheld and forgiven, it is common all over the world,That you scornfully point out for gossip the poor little prodigal girl.There is nothing so truly pathetic as the life of the maidens who fall,And if you search down to the bottom, you will find man the cause of it all.
Just why she has turned out crooked—she happened to strike “the right one,”
Who had the slick tongue of a Judas—and that was your prodigal son;
Though the boy is upheld and forgiven, it is common all over the world,
That you scornfully point out for gossip the poor little prodigal girl.
There is nothing so truly pathetic as the life of the maidens who fall,
And if you search down to the bottom, you will find man the cause of it all.
But he is led back in society and nursed with the tenderest care,Held up to the world as a hero, and mentioned in fervent prayer,While she is cast out from her loved ones; out in the hard, cruel world,And everyone points out and scorns her, the poor little prodigal girl,Now, as has been said quite often, and we will repeat it again,That the lowest of fallen women are better than most of the men.
But he is led back in society and nursed with the tenderest care,
Held up to the world as a hero, and mentioned in fervent prayer,
While she is cast out from her loved ones; out in the hard, cruel world,
And everyone points out and scorns her, the poor little prodigal girl,
Now, as has been said quite often, and we will repeat it again,
That the lowest of fallen women are better than most of the men.
* * *
Ten-year Mary saw her motherDolled all up—skirt “a la sport.”“Mama, when will I be grown upAnd can wear my dresses short?”
Ten-year Mary saw her motherDolled all up—skirt “a la sport.”“Mama, when will I be grown upAnd can wear my dresses short?”
Ten-year Mary saw her motherDolled all up—skirt “a la sport.”“Mama, when will I be grown upAnd can wear my dresses short?”
Ten-year Mary saw her mother
Dolled all up—skirt “a la sport.”
“Mama, when will I be grown up
And can wear my dresses short?”
* * *
Returning from France, a colored trooper was awakened from his nap on the deck by a companion who shouted to him to get up and look at a passing sail boat.
“Niggah,” drowsily answered the reclined trooper, “Don’t you all waken me agin till we pass a tree.”
* * *
In Persia boys and girls never play together.
* * *
Customer in soft drink parlor—Hey there, bartender, stop killing those flies! Don’t you suppose I want a little kick in my beer?
* * *
Everyone has heard authentic stories of the man who asked another: “Who is that old slob over yonder?” and got the reply: “She is my wife.” But the story doesn’t go far enough.
Jones observed an old lady sitting across the room.
“For heaven’s sake!” he remarked to Robinson, “who is that extraordinarily ugly woman there?”
“That,” answered Robinson, “is my wife.”
Jones was taken aback, but moved up front again.
“Well,” he said persuasively, “you just ought to see mine!”
Pasture Pot Pourri
Oh, boys! What wouldn’t I give for just an acre of Cuba in the center of the Whiz Bang farm.
* * *
The reason why Dan Cupid makes so many bad shots is because he aims at the heart while looking at the hosiery.
* * *
Gi’mea Jane wit alit’l eyean’ a nose so very long,Two lips dat qiv’er an’ make u’ giv’ era sam’pell ove yoh ’tong.
Gi’mea Jane wit alit’l eyean’ a nose so very long,Two lips dat qiv’er an’ make u’ giv’ era sam’pell ove yoh ’tong.
Gi’mea Jane wit alit’l eyean’ a nose so very long,Two lips dat qiv’er an’ make u’ giv’ era sam’pell ove yoh ’tong.
Gi’mea Jane wit alit’l eye
an’ a nose so very long,
Two lips dat qiv’er an’ make u’ giv’ er
a sam’pell ove yoh ’tong.
* * *
I got a gal she’s neatSweet as turkey meatWith a great big legAnd toot’ie woot’ie feet.
I got a gal she’s neatSweet as turkey meatWith a great big legAnd toot’ie woot’ie feet.
I got a gal she’s neatSweet as turkey meatWith a great big legAnd toot’ie woot’ie feet.
I got a gal she’s neat
Sweet as turkey meat
With a great big leg
And toot’ie woot’ie feet.
* * *
Never Mind the Bread, Mother—Father will soon be Home with a Bun.
* * *
It makes no difference what you are,Or what you might have been;But if you want a drink that’s fast,Get a quart of old sloe gin.
It makes no difference what you are,Or what you might have been;But if you want a drink that’s fast,Get a quart of old sloe gin.
It makes no difference what you are,Or what you might have been;But if you want a drink that’s fast,Get a quart of old sloe gin.
It makes no difference what you are,
Or what you might have been;
But if you want a drink that’s fast,
Get a quart of old sloe gin.
* * *
Dearie, oh, dearie! If I could have held a hand like this years ago, who knows but what I might have had a full house now.
* * *
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder;Also makes the poor brain wander.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder;Also makes the poor brain wander.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder;Also makes the poor brain wander.
Absinthe makes the heart grow fonder;
Also makes the poor brain wander.
* * *
Eczema, you can’t belong to our union. You’re too much of a scab.
* * *
Mamma loves papa, and papa loves women.
* * *
If you want oneThin or fatGet her addressFrom my flat.
If you want oneThin or fatGet her addressFrom my flat.
If you want oneThin or fatGet her addressFrom my flat.
If you want one
Thin or fat
Get her address
From my flat.
* * *
Latest reports from Cork, Ireland, indicate that the Sinn Fein have taken Pluto, but cannot hold it.
* * *
A girl may drive a coach,Or even a motor car,But the girl who rides a-horsebackIs stretching things too far.
A girl may drive a coach,Or even a motor car,But the girl who rides a-horsebackIs stretching things too far.
A girl may drive a coach,Or even a motor car,But the girl who rides a-horsebackIs stretching things too far.
A girl may drive a coach,
Or even a motor car,
But the girl who rides a-horseback
Is stretching things too far.
* * *
Brethren and sistern, our text fo’ today will be taken from the book of Whiz Bang, chapta fo’ ’leven fo’ty fo’, verse seben ’leben: “He who sitteth on a red hot stove shall rise again.”