* * *
The members of the choir were practicing the well known anthem “As the Hart Pants After the Water Brooks.”
The rendering of the opening stages was apparently not quite to the satisfaction of the gentleman who wielded the baton.
He considered it necessary, therefore, to tender some advice to the soprano section, and caused great consternation and not a little embarrassment among his flock by the following announcement:
“Ladies, your expression is simply splendid, but the time is very poor—really, your pants are far too long.”
* * *
“Is this—can it be love?” sighed Angebella, as she sat on a seat in the park with MacCuthbert’s arm around her waist and his soft voice whispering fondly in her ear. Oh, it was lovely! “It is, my darling,” MacCuthbert assured her. “But tell me, sweet one, how do you feel?” “I feel,” cooed the lady, “as though my heart would leap from my throbbing breast! My parched throat contracts and then expands, while my breath comes in quick, choking sobs.”
There was a sudden rustle in the bushes behind them as a sleeping tramp crawled forth and glowered at them. “I’d take something for it, miss,” he growled. “That ain’t love you’ve got; it’s hiccups.”
* * *
“Whisky has ruined the reputation of many men.”
“Yes,” replied Broncho Bob, “and at the same time, I ain’t so sure that a lot of naturally no-account men haven’t done their share to ruin the reputation of whisky.”
* * *
A “strong-man” actor, wishing to demonstrate his strength, made the following announcement from the stage:
“I would like to have three young ladies volunteer from the audience to come up on the stage, stand on my chest and I will then sing a song.”
Needless to say, none responded.
Strolling With Jane Gaites
Love, once you came to me,I laughed the long day through;For I was young, and happilyI reveled in this love so new.Oh, it was good to live and love!I vowed that I’d be true,And of the sob behind the smileI never dreamed—I never knew.For every joy I’ve shed a tear;Love left me long ago.I’ve nothing now but memories—How could you hurt me so?
Love, once you came to me,I laughed the long day through;For I was young, and happilyI reveled in this love so new.Oh, it was good to live and love!I vowed that I’d be true,And of the sob behind the smileI never dreamed—I never knew.For every joy I’ve shed a tear;Love left me long ago.I’ve nothing now but memories—How could you hurt me so?
Love, once you came to me,I laughed the long day through;For I was young, and happilyI reveled in this love so new.
Love, once you came to me,
I laughed the long day through;
For I was young, and happily
I reveled in this love so new.
Oh, it was good to live and love!I vowed that I’d be true,And of the sob behind the smileI never dreamed—I never knew.
Oh, it was good to live and love!
I vowed that I’d be true,
And of the sob behind the smile
I never dreamed—I never knew.
For every joy I’ve shed a tear;Love left me long ago.I’ve nothing now but memories—How could you hurt me so?
For every joy I’ve shed a tear;
Love left me long ago.
I’ve nothing now but memories—
How could you hurt me so?
* * *
By JANE GAITES
After wrecking a dozen homes or more and crushing at least six or nine perfectly good hearts, the movie “vamp” quickly slipped into her street clothes and hurried away from the noisy studio to buy her baby a doll.After completing the “Adventures of Nan,” the little “convent” girl rushed into her dressing room and was not surprised to find a note from her husband saying that business had called him out of town.She smiled somewhat significantly and then, carefully powdering her saucy little nose and arching thosetwo tiny perfect lips, she hurried away from the noisy studio to keep an appointment with the “vamp’s” husband.
After wrecking a dozen homes or more and crushing at least six or nine perfectly good hearts, the movie “vamp” quickly slipped into her street clothes and hurried away from the noisy studio to buy her baby a doll.
After completing the “Adventures of Nan,” the little “convent” girl rushed into her dressing room and was not surprised to find a note from her husband saying that business had called him out of town.
She smiled somewhat significantly and then, carefully powdering her saucy little nose and arching thosetwo tiny perfect lips, she hurried away from the noisy studio to keep an appointment with the “vamp’s” husband.
* * *
By JANE GAITES
“Where are you going, my pretty maid?”“I am going a-shimmying, sir,” she said.“And may I go with you my pretty maid?”“If it so please you, sir,” she said.“May I kiss you, my pretty maid?”“What is your income, sir?” she said.“Sunday morning, my pretty maid.”“Kid somebody else, sir,” she said.
“Where are you going, my pretty maid?”“I am going a-shimmying, sir,” she said.“And may I go with you my pretty maid?”“If it so please you, sir,” she said.“May I kiss you, my pretty maid?”“What is your income, sir?” she said.“Sunday morning, my pretty maid.”“Kid somebody else, sir,” she said.
“Where are you going, my pretty maid?”“I am going a-shimmying, sir,” she said.“And may I go with you my pretty maid?”“If it so please you, sir,” she said.
“Where are you going, my pretty maid?”
“I am going a-shimmying, sir,” she said.
“And may I go with you my pretty maid?”
“If it so please you, sir,” she said.
“May I kiss you, my pretty maid?”“What is your income, sir?” she said.“Sunday morning, my pretty maid.”“Kid somebody else, sir,” she said.
“May I kiss you, my pretty maid?”
“What is your income, sir?” she said.
“Sunday morning, my pretty maid.”
“Kid somebody else, sir,” she said.
* * *
Dickory, dickory dock,A mouse ran up the clock;But this clock, I find,Was a different kind,And her cries could be heard up the block.
Dickory, dickory dock,A mouse ran up the clock;But this clock, I find,Was a different kind,And her cries could be heard up the block.
Dickory, dickory dock,A mouse ran up the clock;But this clock, I find,Was a different kind,And her cries could be heard up the block.
Dickory, dickory dock,
A mouse ran up the clock;
But this clock, I find,
Was a different kind,
And her cries could be heard up the block.
* * *
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,Sharing her good curds and whey;They were hugging and kissing,When her Ma found her missingAnd frightened fond lover away.
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,Sharing her good curds and whey;They were hugging and kissing,When her Ma found her missingAnd frightened fond lover away.
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,Sharing her good curds and whey;They were hugging and kissing,When her Ma found her missingAnd frightened fond lover away.
Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,
Sharing her good curds and whey;
They were hugging and kissing,
When her Ma found her missing
And frightened fond lover away.
* * *
By JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY
“What bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil,“When you fish where the souls of men abound?”“Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil,“Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.”“But for common use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,”Said the Demon, “I angle for Man, not men;And a thing I hate is to change my bait,So I fish with a woman the whole year ’round.”
“What bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil,“When you fish where the souls of men abound?”“Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil,“Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.”“But for common use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,”Said the Demon, “I angle for Man, not men;And a thing I hate is to change my bait,So I fish with a woman the whole year ’round.”
“What bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil,“When you fish where the souls of men abound?”“Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil,“Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.”“But for common use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,”Said the Demon, “I angle for Man, not men;And a thing I hate is to change my bait,So I fish with a woman the whole year ’round.”
“What bait do you use,” said a Saint to the Devil,
“When you fish where the souls of men abound?”
“Well, for special tastes,” said the King of Evil,
“Gold and Fame are the best I’ve found.”
“But for common use?” asked the Saint. “Ah, then,”
Said the Demon, “I angle for Man, not men;
And a thing I hate is to change my bait,
So I fish with a woman the whole year ’round.”
Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet”
Nature moves oftener to the time of “L’Allegro” than “Il Penseroso”—the major, not the minor chord, predominates. The carol of birds, hum of insects, rustle of leaves, ripple of water and chirrup of cricket are only sad to those whose natures are harsh. There is more of light than shadow, and we feel it as we look at matchless sunrise and sunset, glinting stars, deep green of forest, lighter color of meadow and grain field, and the sunbeams chased by the wind across hillside and valley.
The church is not a cemetery, the minister is not a death’s head, and his church members should not be mummies. The world was given us to cheer our hearts; religion was never designed to make our pleasures less, and when it does we have less of religion and more of something else. To be a child of God is to be a happy member of his family in a present Eden which thrills the brain, fills the heart, and makes us rejoice in the hope of a home where sin and sorrow shall never enter.
The historian Hume found that King Edward II had paid a jester a crown to make him laugh. Thatwas a good investment. How much better it is to have a fool to make one merry than experience to make one sad. Why not have Christmas cheer fifty-two weeks in the year and let it brighten and bless spring, summer and autumn till winter comes again?
Shakespeare says, “One may smile and smile and be a villain,” but I think the man who does not smile is the villain “fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.”
A smile is the difference between a man and a brute, though a laughing hyena is preferable to a scowling misanthrope, and a heathen who only wears a smile to a Christian garbed in gloom.
Cheerfulness does more for health and holiness than pills and preaching. Why not smile in a good world with a gracious God?
The man ought to be arrested who comes downtown in the morning with an insulting scowl that curdles the milk of human kindness. One smile is worth a dozen snarls.
Horace, the Latin poet, taught truth by laughter; in politics a smile has controlled kings; and Swift and Heine did more by their smiles for freedom than swords. We can’t all be poets, painters and presidents, but we can all be end-men to Life’s minstrel show. Mark Tapley was always cheerful, and Sydney Smith said, “I have gout, asthma and seven other maladies, but otherwise, thank the Lord, I am very well.”
“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”
* * *
Pacific Coast physicians are conducting a campaign which has for its aims “the conservation of public health”—specifically, the elimination of the advertising doctors, whom they designate quacks, and the squelching of “cranks” who oppose vivisection.
The editor of the Whiz Bang may be put down by the doctors as among the “cranks” because he doesn’t like the idea of vivisection. I suppose I’m one of those sentimental birds, but any goop who tries to carve up my dog, my pony, or even Pedro, my pedigreed bull, will have a fight on his hands.
If surgeons must have live bodies upon which to experiment, it is suggested they utilize some of the less useful members of the medical profession. Most doctors are good citizens, and we include some advertising doctors, too. They have, it is true, a somewhat exaggerated idea of importance in the general scheme of things, but their delusion is honest. They regard the profession highly, and rightly so.
This being the case, nobody would object if a doctor showed the courage of his convictions by allowing his fellow “cut-ups” to strap him on an operating table and dissect his carburetor and other inside machinery.
But until doctors assume this attitude, most regular people will regard vivisectionists as a low species of bloodthirsty coward, pandering to a perverted taste for twisting entrails.
* * *
Puritans of the city of Spokane, Wash., are seeking to have a city ordinance regulating the length of skirts. Our correspondent in that neck of the woods says he sees no need for such an ordinance, and that the girls are wearing skirts now that are as long as the distance from Spokane to the Canadian border, 100 miles, and that anyway he would rather live on the border.
However, that’s neither here nor there. The big question in Spokane, now that the old maids and senile lawmakers have agreed that the skirts ought to stay below the knees, is to whom should authority to enforce such an ordinance be given?
Some seem to think the ordinance ought to be enforced by the commissioner of public health, while others want the commissioner of public safety. Therefore, the question seems to be whether short skirts are a menace to somebody’s health or whether they are dangerous to public safety.
We’ll say that it depends largely on circumstances. If a girl’s short skirts cause a crowd to gather in the street, and automobile drivers to look around while driving, then it’s a question of safety. Otherwise, and in certain other circumstances, it might bring about a danger to public health.
In any case we declare it to be interfering with the liberties of the subject. Our sympathies are with the fair sex all the time. If a girl has a shapely ankle, why should she hide it? It is part of her stock in trade—in fact, a show window for the male-and-female market, or marriage market, or whatever you wantto call it. Frequently it enables a girl to obtain a good position, it is said.
You might just as well expect a girl to cover up her face if she is a good-looker, or place blinders or goggles on her eyes if they sparkle too much. Besides, we have the poor policemen to consider. Do we wish to take all the joy out of their lives? These cops virtually live on the streets. Their pleasures are few. Are we to deprive them of viewing shapely ankles, etc.? Do let us be a little broad-minded and give the girls liberty.
* * *
Roughly estimated, 14,000,000 microbes, scientists reported, gathered on our grandmother’s skirt. Now it would require a germ a foot high to catch on the hem of a damsel’s garment. Isn’t that some compensation?
* * *
If some married women would only realize the value of a chic robe de nuit en crepe de chine, and other dainty lingerie in retaining their hubby’s admiration, they’d never be found sleeping alone in flannelette while he entertained a bit of fluff outside the home circle.
* * *
“She says she has an ideal husband.”
“How long have they been married?”
“Three weeks.”
“Shucks, all husbands are ideal for the first three weeks.”
* * *
He had known her for years. He had seen a good deal of her—in more ways than one.
He had sat across the parlor from her; she had, of course, crossed her legs; he had seen her trim ankles, her…
He had seen her at the seashore, wearing her tantalizing, silky bathing suit, with its short dress, with its cute little slippers, with its…
He had seen her in her traveling suit; in her cape; in her house dress; in her…
He had seen her at full dress affairs, and considering these dresses as they are, he had, of course, seen…
But it was not until a long, long while that he approximated the ultimatum. It was just a parlor date—one of many—which did not give promise of being any different from all the others. But one thing will lead to another! Finally, by a little slip of the arm, by a little jerk of the head, a little this, and a little that, some hairpins came out; her hair hung a little loosely at the sides; and—essence of compromise!—he saw her ears!
* * *
Shaving off the eyebrows and substituting a thin black painted line is said to be a remarkable new face fashion adopted by a section of smart women. Really one begins to wonder what they will shave next.
Smokehouse Poetry
Whiz Bang, in its next issue, will bring back to life Robert W. Service’s “Lady That’s Known as Lou,” and the picturesque Alaskan barroom of his tragical masterpiece, “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.”
“But I want to state, and my words are straight,And I’ll bet my poke they’re true,That 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 they’re true,That 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 they’re true,That 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 they’re true,
That one of you is a Hound of Hell,
And that one is Dan McGrew.”
That’s a flash of the trail which Service leads to the realm of Dangerous Dan. It will be republished in full in the March issue.—The Editor.
By CARL M. HIGDON
Did you ever hear the storyOf the shimmy-shaking maid,Who could shake a wicked shimmyBut of men she was afraid?She could shimmy in the morning,She could shimmy in the night,She could shimmy in a bedroom,She could shimmy loose or tight.She could shimmy in the ballroom,She could shimmy on the street,She could shimmy after dinnerWith a wiggle slow and sweet.She could shimmy on a mountain,She could shimmy in a pool,When it comes to shimmy-shakingShe’s a shimmy-shaking fool.
Did you ever hear the storyOf the shimmy-shaking maid,Who could shake a wicked shimmyBut of men she was afraid?She could shimmy in the morning,She could shimmy in the night,She could shimmy in a bedroom,She could shimmy loose or tight.She could shimmy in the ballroom,She could shimmy on the street,She could shimmy after dinnerWith a wiggle slow and sweet.She could shimmy on a mountain,She could shimmy in a pool,When it comes to shimmy-shakingShe’s a shimmy-shaking fool.
Did you ever hear the storyOf the shimmy-shaking maid,Who could shake a wicked shimmyBut of men she was afraid?
Did you ever hear the story
Of the shimmy-shaking maid,
Who could shake a wicked shimmy
But of men she was afraid?
She could shimmy in the morning,She could shimmy in the night,She could shimmy in a bedroom,She could shimmy loose or tight.
She could shimmy in the morning,
She could shimmy in the night,
She could shimmy in a bedroom,
She could shimmy loose or tight.
She could shimmy in the ballroom,She could shimmy on the street,She could shimmy after dinnerWith a wiggle slow and sweet.
She could shimmy in the ballroom,
She could shimmy on the street,
She could shimmy after dinner
With a wiggle slow and sweet.
She could shimmy on a mountain,She could shimmy in a pool,When it comes to shimmy-shakingShe’s a shimmy-shaking fool.
She could shimmy on a mountain,
She could shimmy in a pool,
When it comes to shimmy-shaking
She’s a shimmy-shaking fool.
* * *
It was midnight on the ocean,Not a street car was in sight,The sun was shining brightlyAnd it rained all day that night.It was a summer night in winter,The rain was snowing fast,A barefoot boy, with shoes on,Stood, sitting on the grass.It was evening, and the rising sunWas setting in the west,And the little fishes in the treesWere huddling in their nest.The rain was pouring down,The moon was shining bright,And everything that you could seeWas hidden out of sight.While the organ pealed potatoes,Lard was rendered by the choir,While the sexton rung the dish-rag,Someone set the church on fire.“Holy smoke!” the preacher shouted;In the rain he lost his hair;Now his head resembles Heaven,For there is no parting there.
It was midnight on the ocean,Not a street car was in sight,The sun was shining brightlyAnd it rained all day that night.It was a summer night in winter,The rain was snowing fast,A barefoot boy, with shoes on,Stood, sitting on the grass.It was evening, and the rising sunWas setting in the west,And the little fishes in the treesWere huddling in their nest.The rain was pouring down,The moon was shining bright,And everything that you could seeWas hidden out of sight.While the organ pealed potatoes,Lard was rendered by the choir,While the sexton rung the dish-rag,Someone set the church on fire.“Holy smoke!” the preacher shouted;In the rain he lost his hair;Now his head resembles Heaven,For there is no parting there.
It was midnight on the ocean,Not a street car was in sight,The sun was shining brightlyAnd it rained all day that night.
It was midnight on the ocean,
Not a street car was in sight,
The sun was shining brightly
And it rained all day that night.
It was a summer night in winter,The rain was snowing fast,A barefoot boy, with shoes on,Stood, sitting on the grass.
It was a summer night in winter,
The rain was snowing fast,
A barefoot boy, with shoes on,
Stood, sitting on the grass.
It was evening, and the rising sunWas setting in the west,And the little fishes in the treesWere huddling in their nest.
It was evening, and the rising sun
Was setting in the west,
And the little fishes in the trees
Were huddling in their nest.
The rain was pouring down,The moon was shining bright,And everything that you could seeWas hidden out of sight.
The rain was pouring down,
The moon was shining bright,
And everything that you could see
Was hidden out of sight.
While the organ pealed potatoes,Lard was rendered by the choir,While the sexton rung the dish-rag,Someone set the church on fire.
While the organ pealed potatoes,
Lard was rendered by the choir,
While the sexton rung the dish-rag,
Someone set the church on fire.
“Holy smoke!” the preacher shouted;In the rain he lost his hair;Now his head resembles Heaven,For there is no parting there.
“Holy smoke!” the preacher shouted;
In the rain he lost his hair;
Now his head resembles Heaven,
For there is no parting there.
* * *
“Business is poor,” said the beggar;Said the undertaker, “It’s dead;”“Falling off,” said the riding school teacher;The druggist, “Oh, vial,” he said.“It’s all write with me,” said the author;“Picking up,” said the man on the dump;“My business is sound,” said the bandman;Said the athlete, “I’m kept on the jump.”
“Business is poor,” said the beggar;Said the undertaker, “It’s dead;”“Falling off,” said the riding school teacher;The druggist, “Oh, vial,” he said.“It’s all write with me,” said the author;“Picking up,” said the man on the dump;“My business is sound,” said the bandman;Said the athlete, “I’m kept on the jump.”
“Business is poor,” said the beggar;Said the undertaker, “It’s dead;”“Falling off,” said the riding school teacher;The druggist, “Oh, vial,” he said.
“Business is poor,” said the beggar;
Said the undertaker, “It’s dead;”
“Falling off,” said the riding school teacher;
The druggist, “Oh, vial,” he said.
“It’s all write with me,” said the author;“Picking up,” said the man on the dump;“My business is sound,” said the bandman;Said the athlete, “I’m kept on the jump.”
“It’s all write with me,” said the author;
“Picking up,” said the man on the dump;
“My business is sound,” said the bandman;
Said the athlete, “I’m kept on the jump.”
* * *
Note: The author of the following poem is an ex-sailor who now lives in Long Beach, California. It is a poem that all red-blooded men should read and then ponder a bit. Here is the writer’s prelude, explaining how he happened to bring forth such a gem:
“In and out of the service, I have noted that when two or more men engage in conversation, their talk eventually turns to women. Women—bad, indifferent, and sometimes good—is generally the chief topic of the man, but when one brings in some word about a good woman, he is often silenced by stares or cutting remarks. Recently I was confined in a naval brig (no need to mention the offense), and a conversation was being carried on in the “bull pen” that caused me to write the following lines:
E. H. GANTENBEIN
Pipe down, fellows, let me talk, please—Settle yourselves in comfort, make yourselves at ease—I have a few questions I’d like to put to you,You’ll find them very aged, not one of them is new.You’ve just been talking “women,” and the places you have been,And the happy times you’ve had, and the “drunks” on Gordon gin;While you tell of the pretty girl you met in Gay Paree,And the one you took from your shipmate while he was far at sea;The one at Valparaiso, you said she had black eyes,And the girl who lives in ’Frisco, who took you by surprise—You’ve jabbered for an hour or more, and mentioned many a name,You’ve traveled clear around the world and found no two the same.Now listen, fellow shipmates, while talking about your girlsHave you ever thought of the two at home, more precious to you than pearls?How they’re watching, waiting, hoping—sending prayers to God for you,Asking him to guide you onward, to keep you straight and true.Believing in you always, where’er you chance to roam,Looking forward to the time when you’ll be coming home.Now I’ll ask you, fellow shipmates, answer if you can:Have you always lived an honest life; can you call yourself a man?Can you go back to your home town and make that girl your wife,And clasp your mother in your arms and know you have that right?Now these are the questions I would ask, so, shipmates, do your part,Think of the road you’ve traveled and answer from your heart.
Pipe down, fellows, let me talk, please—Settle yourselves in comfort, make yourselves at ease—I have a few questions I’d like to put to you,You’ll find them very aged, not one of them is new.You’ve just been talking “women,” and the places you have been,And the happy times you’ve had, and the “drunks” on Gordon gin;While you tell of the pretty girl you met in Gay Paree,And the one you took from your shipmate while he was far at sea;The one at Valparaiso, you said she had black eyes,And the girl who lives in ’Frisco, who took you by surprise—You’ve jabbered for an hour or more, and mentioned many a name,You’ve traveled clear around the world and found no two the same.Now listen, fellow shipmates, while talking about your girlsHave you ever thought of the two at home, more precious to you than pearls?How they’re watching, waiting, hoping—sending prayers to God for you,Asking him to guide you onward, to keep you straight and true.Believing in you always, where’er you chance to roam,Looking forward to the time when you’ll be coming home.Now I’ll ask you, fellow shipmates, answer if you can:Have you always lived an honest life; can you call yourself a man?Can you go back to your home town and make that girl your wife,And clasp your mother in your arms and know you have that right?Now these are the questions I would ask, so, shipmates, do your part,Think of the road you’ve traveled and answer from your heart.
Pipe down, fellows, let me talk, please—Settle yourselves in comfort, make yourselves at ease—I have a few questions I’d like to put to you,You’ll find them very aged, not one of them is new.
Pipe down, fellows, let me talk, please—
Settle yourselves in comfort, make yourselves at ease—
I have a few questions I’d like to put to you,
You’ll find them very aged, not one of them is new.
You’ve just been talking “women,” and the places you have been,And the happy times you’ve had, and the “drunks” on Gordon gin;While you tell of the pretty girl you met in Gay Paree,And the one you took from your shipmate while he was far at sea;
You’ve just been talking “women,” and the places you have been,
And the happy times you’ve had, and the “drunks” on Gordon gin;
While you tell of the pretty girl you met in Gay Paree,
And the one you took from your shipmate while he was far at sea;
The one at Valparaiso, you said she had black eyes,And the girl who lives in ’Frisco, who took you by surprise—You’ve jabbered for an hour or more, and mentioned many a name,You’ve traveled clear around the world and found no two the same.
The one at Valparaiso, you said she had black eyes,
And the girl who lives in ’Frisco, who took you by surprise—
You’ve jabbered for an hour or more, and mentioned many a name,
You’ve traveled clear around the world and found no two the same.
Now listen, fellow shipmates, while talking about your girlsHave you ever thought of the two at home, more precious to you than pearls?How they’re watching, waiting, hoping—sending prayers to God for you,Asking him to guide you onward, to keep you straight and true.
Now listen, fellow shipmates, while talking about your girls
Have you ever thought of the two at home, more precious to you than pearls?
How they’re watching, waiting, hoping—sending prayers to God for you,
Asking him to guide you onward, to keep you straight and true.
Believing in you always, where’er you chance to roam,Looking forward to the time when you’ll be coming home.Now I’ll ask you, fellow shipmates, answer if you can:Have you always lived an honest life; can you call yourself a man?
Believing in you always, where’er you chance to roam,
Looking forward to the time when you’ll be coming home.
Now I’ll ask you, fellow shipmates, answer if you can:
Have you always lived an honest life; can you call yourself a man?
Can you go back to your home town and make that girl your wife,And clasp your mother in your arms and know you have that right?Now these are the questions I would ask, so, shipmates, do your part,Think of the road you’ve traveled and answer from your heart.
Can you go back to your home town and make that girl your wife,
And clasp your mother in your arms and know you have that right?
Now these are the questions I would ask, so, shipmates, do your part,
Think of the road you’ve traveled and answer from your heart.
* * *
By HAROLD TAYLOR
When I was young and handsome,It was always my delightTo go to balls and dancesAnd stay out late at night.’Twas at a ball I met him,He asked me for a dance,I knew he was a sailorBy the buttons on his pants.His shoes were nicely polished,His hair was neatly combed,I danced with him all evening,Then he asked to see me home.He pressed me to him gently,Then heaved a heavy sighAnd said: “Dear Nellie, darling,My love will never die.”Now all you girls, this warning,Just take a tip from me:Don’t ever let a sailorTake you sailing o’er the sea.For he’ll kiss you, oh, so sweetly,And say there’s none like you,But when he gets that bit of loveHe’ll sail across the blue.
When I was young and handsome,It was always my delightTo go to balls and dancesAnd stay out late at night.’Twas at a ball I met him,He asked me for a dance,I knew he was a sailorBy the buttons on his pants.His shoes were nicely polished,His hair was neatly combed,I danced with him all evening,Then he asked to see me home.He pressed me to him gently,Then heaved a heavy sighAnd said: “Dear Nellie, darling,My love will never die.”Now all you girls, this warning,Just take a tip from me:Don’t ever let a sailorTake you sailing o’er the sea.For he’ll kiss you, oh, so sweetly,And say there’s none like you,But when he gets that bit of loveHe’ll sail across the blue.
When I was young and handsome,It was always my delightTo go to balls and dancesAnd stay out late at night.
When I was young and handsome,
It was always my delight
To go to balls and dances
And stay out late at night.
’Twas at a ball I met him,He asked me for a dance,I knew he was a sailorBy the buttons on his pants.
’Twas at a ball I met him,
He asked me for a dance,
I knew he was a sailor
By the buttons on his pants.
His shoes were nicely polished,His hair was neatly combed,I danced with him all evening,Then he asked to see me home.
His shoes were nicely polished,
His hair was neatly combed,
I danced with him all evening,
Then he asked to see me home.
He pressed me to him gently,Then heaved a heavy sighAnd said: “Dear Nellie, darling,My love will never die.”
He pressed me to him gently,
Then heaved a heavy sigh
And said: “Dear Nellie, darling,
My love will never die.”
Now all you girls, this warning,Just take a tip from me:Don’t ever let a sailorTake you sailing o’er the sea.
Now all you girls, this warning,
Just take a tip from me:
Don’t ever let a sailor
Take you sailing o’er the sea.
For he’ll kiss you, oh, so sweetly,And say there’s none like you,But when he gets that bit of loveHe’ll sail across the blue.
For he’ll kiss you, oh, so sweetly,
And say there’s none like you,
But when he gets that bit of love
He’ll sail across the blue.
* * *
By B. T. Los Angeles
“In this land of dopey dreams, smiling, hoppy-headed scenes, where the Chinamen are smoking all day long; as I lay me down to sleep, hoppy visions o’er me creep, then I hear the snow-birds sing this evening song: Tam, tam, tam the coke and morphine; I can hear my mother’s moan; underneath the starry flag, we must take another drag, and return some day to our beloved home.”
Yep, Whiz Bang readers, here are some more selections written by a dope fiend, the first of his series appearing in the January issue. From the standpoint of human interest towards the unfortunate victim of the drug habit, his poems are mighty interesting. Furthermore, they point a strong moral to lay off the “junk.”—The Editor.
Tonight I lie in a filthy room,Reclined on a bamboo bunk,With a bamboo pipe and lighted potAnd a deuce-spot smeared with junk.For when I feel downcast and blue,Down to the dreamy Chink I sneak,Where I can “hit the hop” and slumber,Forgetting the weary world a week.Passion’s fire now barely smoulders,Dope has led me far astray,Still I think of the one who left meA year ago on Christmas Day.My love for her has never left me,And I know it never will,Even though I’m a fiend to dopeAnd a slave to the hashish pill.But here I lie in a suey-bow,With another night half spent,With a pipe and a card of poppy mudAnd a hop cook from the Orient.
Tonight I lie in a filthy room,Reclined on a bamboo bunk,With a bamboo pipe and lighted potAnd a deuce-spot smeared with junk.For when I feel downcast and blue,Down to the dreamy Chink I sneak,Where I can “hit the hop” and slumber,Forgetting the weary world a week.Passion’s fire now barely smoulders,Dope has led me far astray,Still I think of the one who left meA year ago on Christmas Day.My love for her has never left me,And I know it never will,Even though I’m a fiend to dopeAnd a slave to the hashish pill.But here I lie in a suey-bow,With another night half spent,With a pipe and a card of poppy mudAnd a hop cook from the Orient.
Tonight I lie in a filthy room,Reclined on a bamboo bunk,With a bamboo pipe and lighted potAnd a deuce-spot smeared with junk.
Tonight I lie in a filthy room,
Reclined on a bamboo bunk,
With a bamboo pipe and lighted pot
And a deuce-spot smeared with junk.
For when I feel downcast and blue,Down to the dreamy Chink I sneak,Where I can “hit the hop” and slumber,Forgetting the weary world a week.
For when I feel downcast and blue,
Down to the dreamy Chink I sneak,
Where I can “hit the hop” and slumber,
Forgetting the weary world a week.
Passion’s fire now barely smoulders,Dope has led me far astray,Still I think of the one who left meA year ago on Christmas Day.
Passion’s fire now barely smoulders,
Dope has led me far astray,
Still I think of the one who left me
A year ago on Christmas Day.
My love for her has never left me,And I know it never will,Even though I’m a fiend to dopeAnd a slave to the hashish pill.
My love for her has never left me,
And I know it never will,
Even though I’m a fiend to dope
And a slave to the hashish pill.
But here I lie in a suey-bow,With another night half spent,With a pipe and a card of poppy mudAnd a hop cook from the Orient.
But here I lie in a suey-bow,
With another night half spent,
With a pipe and a card of poppy mud
And a hop cook from the Orient.
* * *
By B. T., Los Angeles
For now I’m down and out,And broken is my will,I’d sell my very clothesFor a marewanna pill.O, once I was good,But now I’m very bad,For the Chinks took from meEverything I ever had.It’s the white man’s curse,The yellow man’s joy,The angels’ dreadAnd the devil’s toy.No good ever comes,And no good ever will,To anyone who smokesThe hashish pill.
For now I’m down and out,And broken is my will,I’d sell my very clothesFor a marewanna pill.O, once I was good,But now I’m very bad,For the Chinks took from meEverything I ever had.It’s the white man’s curse,The yellow man’s joy,The angels’ dreadAnd the devil’s toy.No good ever comes,And no good ever will,To anyone who smokesThe hashish pill.
For now I’m down and out,And broken is my will,I’d sell my very clothesFor a marewanna pill.
For now I’m down and out,
And broken is my will,
I’d sell my very clothes
For a marewanna pill.
O, once I was good,But now I’m very bad,For the Chinks took from meEverything I ever had.
O, once I was good,
But now I’m very bad,
For the Chinks took from me
Everything I ever had.
It’s the white man’s curse,The yellow man’s joy,The angels’ dreadAnd the devil’s toy.
It’s the white man’s curse,
The yellow man’s joy,
The angels’ dread
And the devil’s toy.
No good ever comes,And no good ever will,To anyone who smokesThe hashish pill.
No good ever comes,
And no good ever will,
To anyone who smokes
The hashish pill.
* * *
Your hands were made to hold, my dear;Your hair to lure me on;Your eyes were made to sparkle clear;Your face to gaze upon.Your cheeks were made to blush, my dear;Your waxen ears petiteWere made to catch the silver strainsOf music soft and sweet.Your lips were made to kiss, my dear;Your arms were made to cling;Your voice was made to speak, my dear,Not to sing.
Your hands were made to hold, my dear;Your hair to lure me on;Your eyes were made to sparkle clear;Your face to gaze upon.Your cheeks were made to blush, my dear;Your waxen ears petiteWere made to catch the silver strainsOf music soft and sweet.Your lips were made to kiss, my dear;Your arms were made to cling;Your voice was made to speak, my dear,Not to sing.
Your hands were made to hold, my dear;Your hair to lure me on;Your eyes were made to sparkle clear;Your face to gaze upon.
Your hands were made to hold, my dear;
Your hair to lure me on;
Your eyes were made to sparkle clear;
Your face to gaze upon.
Your cheeks were made to blush, my dear;Your waxen ears petiteWere made to catch the silver strainsOf music soft and sweet.
Your cheeks were made to blush, my dear;
Your waxen ears petite
Were made to catch the silver strains
Of music soft and sweet.
Your lips were made to kiss, my dear;Your arms were made to cling;Your voice was made to speak, my dear,Not to sing.
Your lips were made to kiss, my dear;
Your arms were made to cling;
Your voice was made to speak, my dear,
Not to sing.
* * *
My loveless lady of the ancient daySought love with what of Cupid’s arts he’d give her.I see her now in shimmy shrines and, say,She still beguiles her time with beau and quiver.
My loveless lady of the ancient daySought love with what of Cupid’s arts he’d give her.I see her now in shimmy shrines and, say,She still beguiles her time with beau and quiver.
My loveless lady of the ancient daySought love with what of Cupid’s arts he’d give her.I see her now in shimmy shrines and, say,She still beguiles her time with beau and quiver.
My loveless lady of the ancient day
Sought love with what of Cupid’s arts he’d give her.
I see her now in shimmy shrines and, say,
She still beguiles her time with beau and quiver.
* * *
When night steals up from the golden cupAnd the cares of the day are done;In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower,As we watch the dying sun;Oh, memory strong with its ancient songGoes back to the days of yore,When we mellow grew, with a motley crew,In the Land of the Swinging Door.Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail,Where our foot in comfort sat;Oh, the mirrors vast of crystal glass,And the dear old bar-room cat;Oh, the clink of ice, and the subtle vice,And the highly polished floor,Belong to the show of the long agoIn the Land of the Swinging Door.Democracy’s boast, through its mighty host,Has finished this land at last,And a hot rum punch, with the old free lunch,Are memories of the past;Oh, a lemon coke o’er a soda lokeAnd drinks we now abhor,Are but empty chimes of virile timesIn the Land of the Swinging Door.Oh, a lemonade or a cocaladeSounds good in a “pro-hi” town,But they lack the whiz of an old gin fizzTo our friend, the old rumhound;Oh, the whiskey glass is a thing of past,And the beer and wine’s no more;So let them fret, we won’t forgetThe Land of the Swinging Door.With nicotine, our ruling queen,And a match and an easy chair,We lie at ease and smoke as we pleaseAnd dream of the bar-room fair;With purity waves and reforming aides,Tobacco will soon be o’er,But they can’t legislate our mental stateAnd the Land of the Swinging Door.
When night steals up from the golden cupAnd the cares of the day are done;In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower,As we watch the dying sun;Oh, memory strong with its ancient songGoes back to the days of yore,When we mellow grew, with a motley crew,In the Land of the Swinging Door.Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail,Where our foot in comfort sat;Oh, the mirrors vast of crystal glass,And the dear old bar-room cat;Oh, the clink of ice, and the subtle vice,And the highly polished floor,Belong to the show of the long agoIn the Land of the Swinging Door.Democracy’s boast, through its mighty host,Has finished this land at last,And a hot rum punch, with the old free lunch,Are memories of the past;Oh, a lemon coke o’er a soda lokeAnd drinks we now abhor,Are but empty chimes of virile timesIn the Land of the Swinging Door.Oh, a lemonade or a cocaladeSounds good in a “pro-hi” town,But they lack the whiz of an old gin fizzTo our friend, the old rumhound;Oh, the whiskey glass is a thing of past,And the beer and wine’s no more;So let them fret, we won’t forgetThe Land of the Swinging Door.With nicotine, our ruling queen,And a match and an easy chair,We lie at ease and smoke as we pleaseAnd dream of the bar-room fair;With purity waves and reforming aides,Tobacco will soon be o’er,But they can’t legislate our mental stateAnd the Land of the Swinging Door.
When night steals up from the golden cupAnd the cares of the day are done;In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower,As we watch the dying sun;Oh, memory strong with its ancient songGoes back to the days of yore,When we mellow grew, with a motley crew,In the Land of the Swinging Door.
When night steals up from the golden cup
And the cares of the day are done;
In that evening hour, ’neath the twilight’s bower,
As we watch the dying sun;
Oh, memory strong with its ancient song
Goes back to the days of yore,
When we mellow grew, with a motley crew,
In the Land of the Swinging Door.
Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail,Where our foot in comfort sat;Oh, the mirrors vast of crystal glass,And the dear old bar-room cat;Oh, the clink of ice, and the subtle vice,And the highly polished floor,Belong to the show of the long agoIn the Land of the Swinging Door.
Oh, the shiny rail with its brassy wail,
Where our foot in comfort sat;
Oh, the mirrors vast of crystal glass,
And the dear old bar-room cat;
Oh, the clink of ice, and the subtle vice,
And the highly polished floor,
Belong to the show of the long ago
In the Land of the Swinging Door.
Democracy’s boast, through its mighty host,Has finished this land at last,And a hot rum punch, with the old free lunch,Are memories of the past;Oh, a lemon coke o’er a soda lokeAnd drinks we now abhor,Are but empty chimes of virile timesIn the Land of the Swinging Door.
Democracy’s boast, through its mighty host,
Has finished this land at last,
And a hot rum punch, with the old free lunch,
Are memories of the past;
Oh, a lemon coke o’er a soda loke
And drinks we now abhor,
Are but empty chimes of virile times
In the Land of the Swinging Door.
Oh, a lemonade or a cocaladeSounds good in a “pro-hi” town,But they lack the whiz of an old gin fizzTo our friend, the old rumhound;Oh, the whiskey glass is a thing of past,And the beer and wine’s no more;So let them fret, we won’t forgetThe Land of the Swinging Door.
Oh, a lemonade or a cocalade
Sounds good in a “pro-hi” town,
But they lack the whiz of an old gin fizz
To our friend, the old rumhound;
Oh, the whiskey glass is a thing of past,
And the beer and wine’s no more;
So let them fret, we won’t forget
The Land of the Swinging Door.
With nicotine, our ruling queen,And a match and an easy chair,We lie at ease and smoke as we pleaseAnd dream of the bar-room fair;With purity waves and reforming aides,Tobacco will soon be o’er,But they can’t legislate our mental stateAnd the Land of the Swinging Door.
With nicotine, our ruling queen,
And a match and an easy chair,
We lie at ease and smoke as we please
And dream of the bar-room fair;
With purity waves and reforming aides,
Tobacco will soon be o’er,
But they can’t legislate our mental state
And the Land of the Swinging Door.
* * *
We’re down here in Okla.,Where you never have the blues;Where the bandits steal the jitneysAnd the marshals steal the booze;Where buildings horn the skyline;Where the populace is boost;Where they shoot men just for pastime;Where the chickens never roost;Where the stickup men are waryAnd the bullets fall like hail;Where each pocket has a pistolAnd each pistol’s good for jail;Where they always hang the jury;Where they never hang a man;If you call a man a liar, youGet home the best you can;Where you get up in the morningIn a world of snow and sleet,And you come home in the eveningSuffocating in the heat;Where the jitneys whizz about youAnd the street cars barely creep;Where the burglars pick your pocketsWhile you “lay me down to sleep;”Where the bulldogs all have rabiesAnd the rabbits they have fleas;Where the big girls, like the wee ones,Wear their dresses to their knees;Where you whist out in the morning,Just to give your health a chance,Say “Howdy” to some fellow whoShoots big holes in your pants;Where wise owls are afraid to hootAnd birds don’t dare to sing—For it’s hell down here in Okla.,Where they all shoot on the wing.
We’re down here in Okla.,Where you never have the blues;Where the bandits steal the jitneysAnd the marshals steal the booze;Where buildings horn the skyline;Where the populace is boost;Where they shoot men just for pastime;Where the chickens never roost;Where the stickup men are waryAnd the bullets fall like hail;Where each pocket has a pistolAnd each pistol’s good for jail;Where they always hang the jury;Where they never hang a man;If you call a man a liar, youGet home the best you can;Where you get up in the morningIn a world of snow and sleet,And you come home in the eveningSuffocating in the heat;Where the jitneys whizz about youAnd the street cars barely creep;Where the burglars pick your pocketsWhile you “lay me down to sleep;”Where the bulldogs all have rabiesAnd the rabbits they have fleas;Where the big girls, like the wee ones,Wear their dresses to their knees;Where you whist out in the morning,Just to give your health a chance,Say “Howdy” to some fellow whoShoots big holes in your pants;Where wise owls are afraid to hootAnd birds don’t dare to sing—For it’s hell down here in Okla.,Where they all shoot on the wing.
We’re down here in Okla.,Where you never have the blues;Where the bandits steal the jitneysAnd the marshals steal the booze;Where buildings horn the skyline;Where the populace is boost;Where they shoot men just for pastime;Where the chickens never roost;Where the stickup men are waryAnd the bullets fall like hail;Where each pocket has a pistolAnd each pistol’s good for jail;Where they always hang the jury;Where they never hang a man;If you call a man a liar, youGet home the best you can;Where you get up in the morningIn a world of snow and sleet,And you come home in the eveningSuffocating in the heat;Where the jitneys whizz about youAnd the street cars barely creep;Where the burglars pick your pocketsWhile you “lay me down to sleep;”Where the bulldogs all have rabiesAnd the rabbits they have fleas;Where the big girls, like the wee ones,Wear their dresses to their knees;Where you whist out in the morning,Just to give your health a chance,Say “Howdy” to some fellow whoShoots big holes in your pants;Where wise owls are afraid to hootAnd birds don’t dare to sing—For it’s hell down here in Okla.,Where they all shoot on the wing.
We’re down here in Okla.,
Where you never have the blues;
Where the bandits steal the jitneys
And the marshals steal the booze;
Where buildings horn the skyline;
Where the populace is boost;
Where they shoot men just for pastime;
Where the chickens never roost;
Where the stickup men are wary
And the bullets fall like hail;
Where each pocket has a pistol
And each pistol’s good for jail;
Where they always hang the jury;
Where they never hang a man;
If you call a man a liar, you
Get home the best you can;
Where you get up in the morning
In a world of snow and sleet,
And you come home in the evening
Suffocating in the heat;
Where the jitneys whizz about you
And the street cars barely creep;
Where the burglars pick your pockets
While you “lay me down to sleep;”
Where the bulldogs all have rabies
And the rabbits they have fleas;
Where the big girls, like the wee ones,
Wear their dresses to their knees;
Where you whist out in the morning,
Just to give your health a chance,
Say “Howdy” to some fellow who
Shoots big holes in your pants;
Where wise owls are afraid to hoot
And birds don’t dare to sing—
For it’s hell down here in Okla.,
Where they all shoot on the wing.
* * *
They sat alone in the moonlight,And she soothed his troubled brow.“Dearest, I know my life’s been fast,But I’m on my last lap now.”
They sat alone in the moonlight,And she soothed his troubled brow.“Dearest, I know my life’s been fast,But I’m on my last lap now.”
They sat alone in the moonlight,And she soothed his troubled brow.“Dearest, I know my life’s been fast,But I’m on my last lap now.”
They sat alone in the moonlight,
And she soothed his troubled brow.
“Dearest, I know my life’s been fast,
But I’m on my last lap now.”
* * *
(From the Norsk Nightingale.)
Recited by HARRY DIX
Barbara Frietchie ban brave old hen,Her age it ban tree score and ten.She living in Frederick, Maryland,—It ban yust a dinky von night stand.But Barbara rise to fame, yu bet,And folks ban talking about her yet.Ef yu lak to know yust how dis ban,Ay skol tal yu story the best ay can.Op the street com Yen-ral Yackson,Ay bet yu he ban a gude attraction;For all dese Reubs skol rubber lak hal,And some of dem calling the yen’ral “pal.”Yackson, he sees dem on both sidesShooting dis bunk to save deir hides.Den op in vindow he see big flag,And tenk at first he must have a yag.No; sure enuff, it ban Union Yack.So Stonevall stand on his horse’s back,Yell at his men. Dey shoot, von and all,And into the gutter flag skol fall.Den Barbara get pretty mad, yu bet,And say, “Ay skol fule deze geezers yet.”She run to her bureau double haste,And, yerking out dandy peek-a-boo waist,Nail it to flagstaff, and vave it hard,And say: “Dis skol hold yu avile, old pard.Shoot, ef yu must, dis peek-a-boo,Ef it ant qvite holy enough for you,And tak gude aim at dis old gray head,But spare yure country’s flag!” she said.Den Stonevall Yackson look purty cheap,And all his soldiers feel yust lak sheep.He say: “Dis lady skol standing pat.She ban game old party, ay tal yu dat.Who taking a shot at yon bald headSkol die lak puppy dog, skip along,” he said.All day long in Frederick townSoldiers ban marching op and down.And late dat night, ven dey leave on Soo,Dey see dis fluttering peek-a-boo.And Stonevall Yackson say, “Vat yu tenk.”And yerk out bottle and tak gude drenk.
Barbara Frietchie ban brave old hen,Her age it ban tree score and ten.She living in Frederick, Maryland,—It ban yust a dinky von night stand.But Barbara rise to fame, yu bet,And folks ban talking about her yet.Ef yu lak to know yust how dis ban,Ay skol tal yu story the best ay can.Op the street com Yen-ral Yackson,Ay bet yu he ban a gude attraction;For all dese Reubs skol rubber lak hal,And some of dem calling the yen’ral “pal.”Yackson, he sees dem on both sidesShooting dis bunk to save deir hides.Den op in vindow he see big flag,And tenk at first he must have a yag.No; sure enuff, it ban Union Yack.So Stonevall stand on his horse’s back,Yell at his men. Dey shoot, von and all,And into the gutter flag skol fall.Den Barbara get pretty mad, yu bet,And say, “Ay skol fule deze geezers yet.”She run to her bureau double haste,And, yerking out dandy peek-a-boo waist,Nail it to flagstaff, and vave it hard,And say: “Dis skol hold yu avile, old pard.Shoot, ef yu must, dis peek-a-boo,Ef it ant qvite holy enough for you,And tak gude aim at dis old gray head,But spare yure country’s flag!” she said.Den Stonevall Yackson look purty cheap,And all his soldiers feel yust lak sheep.He say: “Dis lady skol standing pat.She ban game old party, ay tal yu dat.Who taking a shot at yon bald headSkol die lak puppy dog, skip along,” he said.All day long in Frederick townSoldiers ban marching op and down.And late dat night, ven dey leave on Soo,Dey see dis fluttering peek-a-boo.And Stonevall Yackson say, “Vat yu tenk.”And yerk out bottle and tak gude drenk.
Barbara Frietchie ban brave old hen,Her age it ban tree score and ten.She living in Frederick, Maryland,—It ban yust a dinky von night stand.But Barbara rise to fame, yu bet,And folks ban talking about her yet.Ef yu lak to know yust how dis ban,Ay skol tal yu story the best ay can.
Barbara Frietchie ban brave old hen,
Her age it ban tree score and ten.
She living in Frederick, Maryland,—
It ban yust a dinky von night stand.
But Barbara rise to fame, yu bet,
And folks ban talking about her yet.
Ef yu lak to know yust how dis ban,
Ay skol tal yu story the best ay can.
Op the street com Yen-ral Yackson,Ay bet yu he ban a gude attraction;For all dese Reubs skol rubber lak hal,And some of dem calling the yen’ral “pal.”Yackson, he sees dem on both sidesShooting dis bunk to save deir hides.Den op in vindow he see big flag,And tenk at first he must have a yag.No; sure enuff, it ban Union Yack.So Stonevall stand on his horse’s back,Yell at his men. Dey shoot, von and all,And into the gutter flag skol fall.
Op the street com Yen-ral Yackson,
Ay bet yu he ban a gude attraction;
For all dese Reubs skol rubber lak hal,
And some of dem calling the yen’ral “pal.”
Yackson, he sees dem on both sides
Shooting dis bunk to save deir hides.
Den op in vindow he see big flag,
And tenk at first he must have a yag.
No; sure enuff, it ban Union Yack.
So Stonevall stand on his horse’s back,
Yell at his men. Dey shoot, von and all,
And into the gutter flag skol fall.
Den Barbara get pretty mad, yu bet,And say, “Ay skol fule deze geezers yet.”She run to her bureau double haste,And, yerking out dandy peek-a-boo waist,Nail it to flagstaff, and vave it hard,And say: “Dis skol hold yu avile, old pard.Shoot, ef yu must, dis peek-a-boo,Ef it ant qvite holy enough for you,And tak gude aim at dis old gray head,But spare yure country’s flag!” she said.
Den Barbara get pretty mad, yu bet,
And say, “Ay skol fule deze geezers yet.”
She run to her bureau double haste,
And, yerking out dandy peek-a-boo waist,
Nail it to flagstaff, and vave it hard,
And say: “Dis skol hold yu avile, old pard.
Shoot, ef yu must, dis peek-a-boo,
Ef it ant qvite holy enough for you,
And tak gude aim at dis old gray head,
But spare yure country’s flag!” she said.
Den Stonevall Yackson look purty cheap,And all his soldiers feel yust lak sheep.He say: “Dis lady skol standing pat.She ban game old party, ay tal yu dat.Who taking a shot at yon bald headSkol die lak puppy dog, skip along,” he said.
Den Stonevall Yackson look purty cheap,
And all his soldiers feel yust lak sheep.
He say: “Dis lady skol standing pat.
She ban game old party, ay tal yu dat.
Who taking a shot at yon bald head
Skol die lak puppy dog, skip along,” he said.
All day long in Frederick townSoldiers ban marching op and down.And late dat night, ven dey leave on Soo,Dey see dis fluttering peek-a-boo.And Stonevall Yackson say, “Vat yu tenk.”And yerk out bottle and tak gude drenk.
All day long in Frederick town
Soldiers ban marching op and down.
And late dat night, ven dey leave on Soo,
Dey see dis fluttering peek-a-boo.
And Stonevall Yackson say, “Vat yu tenk.”
And yerk out bottle and tak gude drenk.
* * *
Once Eve took a glance at us here,And her poor heart was filled with good cheer;“When I ran around nudeI thought I was rude,But I note I’m in good style this year.”
Once Eve took a glance at us here,And her poor heart was filled with good cheer;“When I ran around nudeI thought I was rude,But I note I’m in good style this year.”
Once Eve took a glance at us here,And her poor heart was filled with good cheer;“When I ran around nudeI thought I was rude,But I note I’m in good style this year.”
Once Eve took a glance at us here,
And her poor heart was filled with good cheer;
“When I ran around nude
I thought I was rude,
But I note I’m in good style this year.”
* * *
There was a young lady named PerkinsWho had a great fondness for gherkins;She went to a teaAnd ate twenty-three,Which pickled her internal workin’s.
There was a young lady named PerkinsWho had a great fondness for gherkins;She went to a teaAnd ate twenty-three,Which pickled her internal workin’s.
There was a young lady named PerkinsWho had a great fondness for gherkins;She went to a teaAnd ate twenty-three,Which pickled her internal workin’s.
There was a young lady named Perkins
Who had a great fondness for gherkins;
She went to a tea
And ate twenty-three,
Which pickled her internal workin’s.
* * *
Said a fellow named Oscar H. Titus:“The shimmy is danced to delight us.”They asked him, by chance,Who invented the dance,And the answer he gave was: “St. Vitus.”
Said a fellow named Oscar H. Titus:“The shimmy is danced to delight us.”They asked him, by chance,Who invented the dance,And the answer he gave was: “St. Vitus.”
Said a fellow named Oscar H. Titus:“The shimmy is danced to delight us.”They asked him, by chance,Who invented the dance,And the answer he gave was: “St. Vitus.”
Said a fellow named Oscar H. Titus:
“The shimmy is danced to delight us.”
They asked him, by chance,
Who invented the dance,
And the answer he gave was: “St. Vitus.”
* * *
The milkman came and left the milk,The nursemaid got the same,She vamped him and he married her,And now the cow they blame.
The milkman came and left the milk,The nursemaid got the same,She vamped him and he married her,And now the cow they blame.
The milkman came and left the milk,The nursemaid got the same,She vamped him and he married her,And now the cow they blame.
The milkman came and left the milk,
The nursemaid got the same,
She vamped him and he married her,
And now the cow they blame.
* * *
“Oh, mother, may I go out to swim?”“Oh, yes, my darling daughter,But hang some clothes on each pretty limb,For the po-lice insist you oughter.”
“Oh, mother, may I go out to swim?”“Oh, yes, my darling daughter,But hang some clothes on each pretty limb,For the po-lice insist you oughter.”
“Oh, mother, may I go out to swim?”“Oh, yes, my darling daughter,But hang some clothes on each pretty limb,For the po-lice insist you oughter.”
“Oh, mother, may I go out to swim?”
“Oh, yes, my darling daughter,
But hang some clothes on each pretty limb,
For the po-lice insist you oughter.”
Pasture Pot Pourri
Oh, aspirin, dear aspirin, my head aches for you.
* * *
A trip on the ocean will bring out all the good that’s in you.
* * *
In the army it was: “Gimme,” “Let me take,” and “Have you?”
* * *
When your comprenez vous rope is cut,When you’ve bats in your belfry that flut,When there’s nobody homeIn the top of your dome,Then your head ain’t a head—it’s a nut.
When your comprenez vous rope is cut,When you’ve bats in your belfry that flut,When there’s nobody homeIn the top of your dome,Then your head ain’t a head—it’s a nut.
When your comprenez vous rope is cut,When you’ve bats in your belfry that flut,When there’s nobody homeIn the top of your dome,Then your head ain’t a head—it’s a nut.
When your comprenez vous rope is cut,
When you’ve bats in your belfry that flut,
When there’s nobody home
In the top of your dome,
Then your head ain’t a head—it’s a nut.
* * *
Last night I went to see a fortune teller. She read my mind, started to blush, and slapped me right in the face.
* * *
No, Geraldine, Rex Beach is not a summer resort.
* * *
It is said that a woman ofttimes will drive a man to drink. For the land’s sake, show me one.
* * *
Superintendent—“How long did you work at your last job?”Applicant—“Ten years.”“What doing?”“Ten years.”
Superintendent—“How long did you work at your last job?”
Applicant—“Ten years.”
“What doing?”
“Ten years.”