* * *
First he said “Gimme a kiss,”Then he said “Gimme a hug,”Then he wanted “A lock of my hair.”I filled these requests with glee.Then to prove truly that he was a “gimme”The brute, he gave me “the air.”(’Tis tuff, sister, ’tis tuff.)
First he said “Gimme a kiss,”Then he said “Gimme a hug,”Then he wanted “A lock of my hair.”I filled these requests with glee.Then to prove truly that he was a “gimme”The brute, he gave me “the air.”(’Tis tuff, sister, ’tis tuff.)
First he said “Gimme a kiss,”Then he said “Gimme a hug,”Then he wanted “A lock of my hair.”I filled these requests with glee.Then to prove truly that he was a “gimme”The brute, he gave me “the air.”(’Tis tuff, sister, ’tis tuff.)
First he said “Gimme a kiss,”
Then he said “Gimme a hug,”
Then he wanted “A lock of my hair.”
I filled these requests with glee.
Then to prove truly that he was a “gimme”
The brute, he gave me “the air.”
(’Tis tuff, sister, ’tis tuff.)
* * *
Why wait until you’re old and bent?The wise bird took ’em as he went.
Why wait until you’re old and bent?The wise bird took ’em as he went.
Why wait until you’re old and bent?The wise bird took ’em as he went.
Why wait until you’re old and bent?
The wise bird took ’em as he went.
* * *
Over in Italy they have a new drink, made out of prunes. They call it Prunell. That’s nothing. Over here they have a new drink made out of raisins. They call it Raisenell.
* * *
Stranger (winking): Can you direct me to a good drug store?
Villager: You’re talking to one right now.
* * *
The ocean wearily exclaimed,“Incessantly I go;I wonder that I don’t get cornsUpon my undertow.”
The ocean wearily exclaimed,“Incessantly I go;I wonder that I don’t get cornsUpon my undertow.”
The ocean wearily exclaimed,“Incessantly I go;I wonder that I don’t get cornsUpon my undertow.”
The ocean wearily exclaimed,
“Incessantly I go;
I wonder that I don’t get corns
Upon my undertow.”
* * *
The first Tommy was ruddy of complexion, with a huge growth of beard of the hue known as auburn.
The second was smooth shaven. Said the latter: “I useter have a beard like that till I saw myself in the glass. Then I cut it off.”
But the bearded man was not dismayed.
“Much better ’ave left it on, mate,” he returned gently. “I useter have a face like yours till I saw it in the glass. Then I growed this beard.”
* * *
Mother—Come, Bobbie, don’t be a little savage—kiss the lady.
Bobbie—No, she’s a naughty lady. If I kiss her she may give me a slap just like she did Papa.
* * *
The man who has the love and confidence of a good woman, and whom the children run to meet when he is coming home from his work at night, may no be rated as a millionaire, by Bad Street and Done, but High-Gate Pete has him pretty well lined up in the Babe Ruth class!
* * *
George, my boy, when a girl really loves you she’ll wade through hell for you unprotected and with her hair unleashed and streaming defiantly behind her as Love’s Unconquerable Flag. You’re the whole works to her—from the engineer to the president, and the directors and stockholders heaved in for good measure. All other men, compared to you, are only accidents or bellhops.
* * *
A jug o’ pumpernickel, a hunk o’ buttermilk and a case of near-beer, a pinch o’ limburger and a bouquet of green onions, a ukelele, an electric fan and a fly swatter, a porch hammock, the Whiz Bang, a package of cigarettes, a few jazz records and a chicken and you couldn’t wish Harding’s job on me!
* * *
As the old Hebrew walked across the golf links, a ball bounced off his head with considerable force. He turned angrily upon the golfer. “Say,” he yelled, “You want to kill me?” “I sue you for fife tousand dollars.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said ‘Fore.’”
“All right,” Ikey replied, “I’ll take it.”
* * *
She hangs out in our alley, but oh! what she hangs out.
* * *
“See here, I will not let you go out in a frock like that.”
“Don’t be an ass, Jack. I’m not going out—I’m going to bed.”
Whiz Bang Editorials“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
“The Bull is Mightier Than the Bullet.”
Although tradition holds the devil was masculine, there is at least one person in the world who would dispute tradition and stamp the evil one a woman. You may not agree with him, but then again you may, so here’s the poem:
As the story is told, in the ages of old,The devil, a spirit, was free,To wander at will, mid the good and the ill,So the devil a roaming went he.In a garden he met an old man and his pet,And straightway enamored was heWith Eve, young and cute, so he gave her some fruit,For the devil a serpent could be.Then she put on a skirt and made Adam a shirt—A cunning young vixen was she—Concealing her charms, yet displaying her arms,Till the devil he chuckled in glee.For he saw at a glance that his charms would enhanceIf only a female were he;So, donning her clothes, through creation he goes,And the devil a woman is she!
As the story is told, in the ages of old,The devil, a spirit, was free,To wander at will, mid the good and the ill,So the devil a roaming went he.In a garden he met an old man and his pet,And straightway enamored was heWith Eve, young and cute, so he gave her some fruit,For the devil a serpent could be.Then she put on a skirt and made Adam a shirt—A cunning young vixen was she—Concealing her charms, yet displaying her arms,Till the devil he chuckled in glee.For he saw at a glance that his charms would enhanceIf only a female were he;So, donning her clothes, through creation he goes,And the devil a woman is she!
As the story is told, in the ages of old,The devil, a spirit, was free,To wander at will, mid the good and the ill,So the devil a roaming went he.In a garden he met an old man and his pet,And straightway enamored was heWith Eve, young and cute, so he gave her some fruit,For the devil a serpent could be.
As the story is told, in the ages of old,
The devil, a spirit, was free,
To wander at will, mid the good and the ill,
So the devil a roaming went he.
In a garden he met an old man and his pet,
And straightway enamored was he
With Eve, young and cute, so he gave her some fruit,
For the devil a serpent could be.
Then she put on a skirt and made Adam a shirt—A cunning young vixen was she—Concealing her charms, yet displaying her arms,Till the devil he chuckled in glee.For he saw at a glance that his charms would enhanceIf only a female were he;So, donning her clothes, through creation he goes,And the devil a woman is she!
Then she put on a skirt and made Adam a shirt—
A cunning young vixen was she—
Concealing her charms, yet displaying her arms,
Till the devil he chuckled in glee.
For he saw at a glance that his charms would enhance
If only a female were he;
So, donning her clothes, through creation he goes,
And the devil a woman is she!
* * *
“Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed,”
“Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed,”
“Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,Holy angels guard thy bed,”
“Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed,”
were the soft sweet words I heard as I passed by a little cottage home. Glancing in the open doorway, I saw a young mother rocking her baby to sleep. It recalled the voice of mymother who sings to me across the years of babyhood, youth and manhood.
In memory’s light I see the old cradle. It was a homely thing. The sides sloped, it was just wide enough for a baby’s arms to reach across, high enough for the little sister to look over, and the brother to learn to walk by. It was shaped like a kind of Noah’s Ark, but in it we children rocked and rode safely over all the storms of early years.
It had a wooden canopy at the head. As we looked up, it must have seemed like the edge of the world, or a dark background on which to paint awful childish fancies. Sometimes a loud man or an ugly woman looked over it into our faces, spoke, and we were frightened and cried, but mother came and smiled the tears away.
The rockers were curved and turned over at the end, and were worn smooth and gray. Weary with work, mother sat by our side, placed her tired foot on the rocker, and to the time beat of a loving heart, rocked us to sleep as she knitted, sewed, mended, thought or prayed.
For many years the old cradle was going most of the time. Again and again a big baby was taken out of the cradle and a small one put in. She sang as only the mother can, whose child is born of pain and baptized with tears.
It was a lullaby sweet and low, like hum of bees in summertime; a song in a nursery, and not in a concert hall; a song not for the many but for just one pair of little ears which heard and loved and understood. It was rock, andsing, for nap by day and long sleep by night; rock and sing when well and glad or sick and sad. One day the cradle was stilled, the little brother, Gordon, was sound asleep, his long lashes cast shadows on the upturned cheek, and the little fingers had changed a red rose for a white lily. His cradle had rocked him nearer to the tomb for “birth is nothing but our death begun.”
Dear cradle of childhood, that rested so many tired bodies and soothed so many hearts. Today the old cradle is in the dark garret and the tired mother rests in the dark grave. The hands that laid the pillow and spread the cover have stopped their work; the foot that rocked it has finished its journey; the face that hovered above it is gone and the song she sang is silent.
Baby boys and girls are men and women now, but they can never forget the old cradle. How often when body, mind and heart ache we toss and cry during the long night hours, and wish that mother could hug, kiss and put us in the old cradle again and rock and sing us to sleep.
* * *
We note with amusement that certain of the sanctimonious sect still are passing “resolutions” about the Dempsey-Carpentier fistic embroglio, deploring the same as a “disgrace to our civilization.” These are the same “birds” who would have us scrap our navy and reduce the army to a squad of boy scouts with Easter lilies in their hands.
A “prize fight” is no more brutal than any other manifestation of power; no more “disgraceful” in what we call civilization than any other application of force. Force rules the universe; nothing can resist it. It would take physical force to maintain any law against prize fighting just as it takes physical force to keep the bathing beauties from discarding their two-ounce outfits as too burdensome to wear.
Prize fighting is a “disgrace to civilization” only because it is mercenary, venal, sordid; yet we loan our money on mortgages and sell our goods at a profit with never a thought of disagreeable civilization. The fighter sells his ability to clout another prize fighter on the chin before the other bambino of the bulging biceps bangs him on his own proboscis.
The power of the state is behind all human law and activity—the threat of physical enforcement keeps Pedro, Jr., out of Neighbor Jones’ alfalfa patch. Society is protected by force and sometimes with arms. Our civilization is merely armed resistance to “barbarism” and the brutality is always under the thin pretense of “culture” and “refinement.”
We have no desire to see America a nation of male toe dancers. Let there be “prize fighting” if it is to help save the country from the bigotry of the organized minority. If we don’t look out we’ll soon be as unprotected as a toke point oyster on the half shell—and it will be the folk who are raving about prize fighting that will do it.
* * *
My hip is often my castle.
* * *
Ikey was talking to his Yiddish merchant friend in the latter’s store when the dealer’s young son toddled in and said, “Papa, give me some money.” The father reached in his pocket and handed the boy a quarter. His friend appeared rather shocked at the show of liberality. “Why, how much spending money do you give that kid every week?” he asked. Levy replied, “Only three quarters.”
“Don’t you think you’re too extravagant with a child?”
“Oh, no,” answered Levy, “I showed him how to put the quarters in the gas meter and he thinks it’s a bank.”
* * *
They were holding an inquest upon poor Sandy McHarris, whose body had been taken from the Thames. Eleven of the jury were for returning a verdict of suicide, but the twelfth, a brither Scot demurred.
“Hoo could it be suicide?” he asked. “Ah’m for a vairdict o’ ‘Accidental death,’ maisel. Ye’ll notice that the puir laddie had a bottle of whisky on him, and it was nearly full.”
Verdict in accordance with the evidence.
* * *
“Say, Gus,” asked a neighbor, “I heard that the foreman has had a fever. How’s his temperature today?” Our hired man scratched his head and decided not to commit himself. “Taint for me to say,” he replied. “He died last night.”
Smokehouse Poetry
In the November issue Smokehouse Poetry will bring back to memory that Civil War classic, “Your Letter, Lady, Came Too Late.” This beautiful and touching poem was written by an officer of the Confederate Army to the most beautiful and brilliant belle of Savannah, the fiancee of the officer’s companion in prison. The woman had written a cold, heartless letter, but her fiance had died before the letter was received and the poem was in answer to it.
Tonight your home may shine with lights,And ring with merry songs,And you be smiling as though your soulHad done no deathly wrong.Your hands so fair, none would thinkHad penned these words of pain,Your skin so white, would God, your heart,Were half so free from stain.
Tonight your home may shine with lights,And ring with merry songs,And you be smiling as though your soulHad done no deathly wrong.Your hands so fair, none would thinkHad penned these words of pain,Your skin so white, would God, your heart,Were half so free from stain.
Tonight your home may shine with lights,And ring with merry songs,And you be smiling as though your soulHad done no deathly wrong.Your hands so fair, none would thinkHad penned these words of pain,Your skin so white, would God, your heart,Were half so free from stain.
Tonight your home may shine with lights,
And ring with merry songs,
And you be smiling as though your soul
Had done no deathly wrong.
Your hands so fair, none would think
Had penned these words of pain,
Your skin so white, would God, your heart,
Were half so free from stain.
In addition to this noted classic, Whiz Bang will reproduce “Down In the Lehigh Valley,” which is well known by name among Smokehouse fans. And, in parting, folks, don’t forget that the Winter Annual will contain the greatest assortment of Smokehouse poetry ever put into print. Send your dollar in before you are too late.
* * *
This poem was written by Arthur Winter on the wall of the Federal Prison at McNeil Island, Washington, in September, 1909, and later memorized by another prisoner and forwarded to the Whiz Bang upon his release. We offer it to you for what you think it is worth.
Our prayer has gone up through the agesTo a God whom they say gave us souls;But the fear of anger still rages,The thunder of punishment rolls.We are sheep that are driven to slaughter;We are dogs that are whelped in the street;We are useless as poisonous water;We are only for punishment meet.So hear ye the prayers from the prison,Where fever and famine are rife;Where never one soul has arisen,Where myriads go down in the strife.Where the black wing of death scarcely hovers,Lest its jesters should make him unclean;And the soft fleecy clouds hurry over,To shut out God’s sun from the scene.Where the light of God’s orb would be stricken,With shame as it passed in the sky,To look in the cells where we sicken,To fall in the sod where we die.If thou, God, omnipotent being,Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom;And growest not sick of the seeing,This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger,To smite this damn den of despair,Whose evil is rampant, and languorIs lord of the poisonous lair.Then God, take Ye back your creation,And plunge it in infinite fire,Your wrath is eternal damnation,But man’s is more lasting dire.
Our prayer has gone up through the agesTo a God whom they say gave us souls;But the fear of anger still rages,The thunder of punishment rolls.We are sheep that are driven to slaughter;We are dogs that are whelped in the street;We are useless as poisonous water;We are only for punishment meet.So hear ye the prayers from the prison,Where fever and famine are rife;Where never one soul has arisen,Where myriads go down in the strife.Where the black wing of death scarcely hovers,Lest its jesters should make him unclean;And the soft fleecy clouds hurry over,To shut out God’s sun from the scene.Where the light of God’s orb would be stricken,With shame as it passed in the sky,To look in the cells where we sicken,To fall in the sod where we die.If thou, God, omnipotent being,Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom;And growest not sick of the seeing,This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger,To smite this damn den of despair,Whose evil is rampant, and languorIs lord of the poisonous lair.Then God, take Ye back your creation,And plunge it in infinite fire,Your wrath is eternal damnation,But man’s is more lasting dire.
Our prayer has gone up through the agesTo a God whom they say gave us souls;But the fear of anger still rages,The thunder of punishment rolls.
Our prayer has gone up through the ages
To a God whom they say gave us souls;
But the fear of anger still rages,
The thunder of punishment rolls.
We are sheep that are driven to slaughter;We are dogs that are whelped in the street;We are useless as poisonous water;We are only for punishment meet.
We are sheep that are driven to slaughter;
We are dogs that are whelped in the street;
We are useless as poisonous water;
We are only for punishment meet.
So hear ye the prayers from the prison,Where fever and famine are rife;Where never one soul has arisen,Where myriads go down in the strife.
So hear ye the prayers from the prison,
Where fever and famine are rife;
Where never one soul has arisen,
Where myriads go down in the strife.
Where the black wing of death scarcely hovers,Lest its jesters should make him unclean;And the soft fleecy clouds hurry over,To shut out God’s sun from the scene.
Where the black wing of death scarcely hovers,
Lest its jesters should make him unclean;
And the soft fleecy clouds hurry over,
To shut out God’s sun from the scene.
Where the light of God’s orb would be stricken,With shame as it passed in the sky,To look in the cells where we sicken,To fall in the sod where we die.
Where the light of God’s orb would be stricken,
With shame as it passed in the sky,
To look in the cells where we sicken,
To fall in the sod where we die.
If thou, God, omnipotent being,Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom;And growest not sick of the seeing,This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?
If thou, God, omnipotent being,
Can pierce the prison’s pale gloom;
And growest not sick of the seeing,
This charnel, this foul-reeking tomb?
If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger,To smite this damn den of despair,Whose evil is rampant, and languorIs lord of the poisonous lair.
If Thy hand stretch not forth in its anger,
To smite this damn den of despair,
Whose evil is rampant, and languor
Is lord of the poisonous lair.
Then God, take Ye back your creation,And plunge it in infinite fire,Your wrath is eternal damnation,But man’s is more lasting dire.
Then God, take Ye back your creation,
And plunge it in infinite fire,
Your wrath is eternal damnation,
But man’s is more lasting dire.
* * *
By Koffdrop DeHaven.
A few years back, in my palmy days, when the boxing game was grand,I tipped the scales at a hundred and ten; had a punch in either hand;But I never was a top notch, the reason for which I’ll tell,I was learning a trade in a boiler shop; I worked, and worked like everything;I was down at the gym three times a week, tore off six rounds each night,’Till I found myself in tiptop shape and ready for the fight.I was matched to box “The Sunflower Kid,” the colored bantam champ;I knew he was good so I trained down fine, and stuck to my training camp.For I never drank nor smoked then, boys, I prided my health and strength,Could box like Gibbons and hit like Jack, had a good left jab for its length.The fight with the “chocolate drop” was at the Chickatawbut club;Although I was white I was in the dark for they took me for a dub.We entered the ring and a whoop went up, we both shared the applause,They liked us both and “The Kid” was a price and we knew each other’s flaws.For we went to school together, “The Sunflower Kid” and me,And we knew each other’s tactics like the saying A to Z.The bell rang; we came to the front and neither of us smiled,We were feinting and “feeling each other out,” and one of my swings went wild;No damage was done in the opening round, except for a few left hooks,I was sure I had his number then and proceeded to mar his looks.The eighth opened up, I was still very fresh, getting stronger all the while,I ducked “The Kid’s” right swing to the jaw and met him with a smile,Yes, a smile and also a right hand smash to the softest part of the jaw,And “The Kid” went down from the force of the blow and laid out on the straw.The referee counted ten and then the “Kid” didn’t move a bit,I knelt beside him, got hold of his head, I knew he was hard hit.A doctor jumped in and felt his pulse, put water on his head,A minute later he tested his heart and announced the “Kid” was dead.From that time on, I’m sorry to say, my life began to failIn health and strength and happiness for I served ten years in jail.And now I am fighting Barleycorn and my hair is turning gray,And I’ll beget this tough old gamester until my judgment day.
A few years back, in my palmy days, when the boxing game was grand,I tipped the scales at a hundred and ten; had a punch in either hand;But I never was a top notch, the reason for which I’ll tell,I was learning a trade in a boiler shop; I worked, and worked like everything;I was down at the gym three times a week, tore off six rounds each night,’Till I found myself in tiptop shape and ready for the fight.I was matched to box “The Sunflower Kid,” the colored bantam champ;I knew he was good so I trained down fine, and stuck to my training camp.For I never drank nor smoked then, boys, I prided my health and strength,Could box like Gibbons and hit like Jack, had a good left jab for its length.The fight with the “chocolate drop” was at the Chickatawbut club;Although I was white I was in the dark for they took me for a dub.We entered the ring and a whoop went up, we both shared the applause,They liked us both and “The Kid” was a price and we knew each other’s flaws.For we went to school together, “The Sunflower Kid” and me,And we knew each other’s tactics like the saying A to Z.The bell rang; we came to the front and neither of us smiled,We were feinting and “feeling each other out,” and one of my swings went wild;No damage was done in the opening round, except for a few left hooks,I was sure I had his number then and proceeded to mar his looks.The eighth opened up, I was still very fresh, getting stronger all the while,I ducked “The Kid’s” right swing to the jaw and met him with a smile,Yes, a smile and also a right hand smash to the softest part of the jaw,And “The Kid” went down from the force of the blow and laid out on the straw.The referee counted ten and then the “Kid” didn’t move a bit,I knelt beside him, got hold of his head, I knew he was hard hit.A doctor jumped in and felt his pulse, put water on his head,A minute later he tested his heart and announced the “Kid” was dead.From that time on, I’m sorry to say, my life began to failIn health and strength and happiness for I served ten years in jail.And now I am fighting Barleycorn and my hair is turning gray,And I’ll beget this tough old gamester until my judgment day.
A few years back, in my palmy days, when the boxing game was grand,I tipped the scales at a hundred and ten; had a punch in either hand;But I never was a top notch, the reason for which I’ll tell,I was learning a trade in a boiler shop; I worked, and worked like everything;I was down at the gym three times a week, tore off six rounds each night,’Till I found myself in tiptop shape and ready for the fight.I was matched to box “The Sunflower Kid,” the colored bantam champ;I knew he was good so I trained down fine, and stuck to my training camp.For I never drank nor smoked then, boys, I prided my health and strength,Could box like Gibbons and hit like Jack, had a good left jab for its length.
A few years back, in my palmy days, when the boxing game was grand,
I tipped the scales at a hundred and ten; had a punch in either hand;
But I never was a top notch, the reason for which I’ll tell,
I was learning a trade in a boiler shop; I worked, and worked like everything;
I was down at the gym three times a week, tore off six rounds each night,
’Till I found myself in tiptop shape and ready for the fight.
I was matched to box “The Sunflower Kid,” the colored bantam champ;
I knew he was good so I trained down fine, and stuck to my training camp.
For I never drank nor smoked then, boys, I prided my health and strength,
Could box like Gibbons and hit like Jack, had a good left jab for its length.
The fight with the “chocolate drop” was at the Chickatawbut club;Although I was white I was in the dark for they took me for a dub.We entered the ring and a whoop went up, we both shared the applause,They liked us both and “The Kid” was a price and we knew each other’s flaws.For we went to school together, “The Sunflower Kid” and me,And we knew each other’s tactics like the saying A to Z.The bell rang; we came to the front and neither of us smiled,We were feinting and “feeling each other out,” and one of my swings went wild;No damage was done in the opening round, except for a few left hooks,I was sure I had his number then and proceeded to mar his looks.
The fight with the “chocolate drop” was at the Chickatawbut club;
Although I was white I was in the dark for they took me for a dub.
We entered the ring and a whoop went up, we both shared the applause,
They liked us both and “The Kid” was a price and we knew each other’s flaws.
For we went to school together, “The Sunflower Kid” and me,
And we knew each other’s tactics like the saying A to Z.
The bell rang; we came to the front and neither of us smiled,
We were feinting and “feeling each other out,” and one of my swings went wild;
No damage was done in the opening round, except for a few left hooks,
I was sure I had his number then and proceeded to mar his looks.
The eighth opened up, I was still very fresh, getting stronger all the while,I ducked “The Kid’s” right swing to the jaw and met him with a smile,Yes, a smile and also a right hand smash to the softest part of the jaw,And “The Kid” went down from the force of the blow and laid out on the straw.The referee counted ten and then the “Kid” didn’t move a bit,I knelt beside him, got hold of his head, I knew he was hard hit.A doctor jumped in and felt his pulse, put water on his head,A minute later he tested his heart and announced the “Kid” was dead.From that time on, I’m sorry to say, my life began to failIn health and strength and happiness for I served ten years in jail.
The eighth opened up, I was still very fresh, getting stronger all the while,
I ducked “The Kid’s” right swing to the jaw and met him with a smile,
Yes, a smile and also a right hand smash to the softest part of the jaw,
And “The Kid” went down from the force of the blow and laid out on the straw.
The referee counted ten and then the “Kid” didn’t move a bit,
I knelt beside him, got hold of his head, I knew he was hard hit.
A doctor jumped in and felt his pulse, put water on his head,
A minute later he tested his heart and announced the “Kid” was dead.
From that time on, I’m sorry to say, my life began to fail
In health and strength and happiness for I served ten years in jail.
And now I am fighting Barleycorn and my hair is turning gray,And I’ll beget this tough old gamester until my judgment day.
And now I am fighting Barleycorn and my hair is turning gray,
And I’ll beget this tough old gamester until my judgment day.
* * *
When a pretty Fairy gets on a car,And her dress comes kinder high,The goodly man will steal a glance,Even as you and I.But when he’s with a real nice girl,To look, he will not try,He is a regular “model man”Even as you and I.
When a pretty Fairy gets on a car,And her dress comes kinder high,The goodly man will steal a glance,Even as you and I.But when he’s with a real nice girl,To look, he will not try,He is a regular “model man”Even as you and I.
When a pretty Fairy gets on a car,And her dress comes kinder high,The goodly man will steal a glance,Even as you and I.
When a pretty Fairy gets on a car,
And her dress comes kinder high,
The goodly man will steal a glance,
Even as you and I.
But when he’s with a real nice girl,To look, he will not try,He is a regular “model man”Even as you and I.
But when he’s with a real nice girl,
To look, he will not try,
He is a regular “model man”
Even as you and I.
* * *
Jazzed a trifle—Apologies to Langdon Smith
By Neil McConlogue.
When you were part of an elephant’s tuskIn the Palezoic time,And I rode round in a walrus mouth’Mid the piscatorial slime,Or skittered with many a caudal flipThru the depths of a salmon fen—Our hearts were rife with that dentine life,But—I wasn’t with you then.That was before the colored manInvented the game called Crap;Before they cubed and spotted our sides,And tossed us toward Fortune’s Lap.But the world turned on in the lathe of time;The hot sands heaved amain;And our faces were polished with emery wheel—Then between us they made a game.At first they called us a “game of dice.”We were drab as a dead man’s hand:We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees,Or trailed thru the mud and sand.Sextette-sided, with corners round,Writing a language dumb;While fingers snapped and cash exchangedOn bets that we wouldn’t “come.”Later they labeled us “African Golf.”And they gave us a spin once more.Our forms were rolled in the clinging moldOf the Terra Firma shore.The aeons came, and the aeons fled,But the hand that held us fast,Was sure to hold us a bit too long,We tried hard, but—couldn’t “pass.”Then light and swift thru the jungle treesSwung the white men in their flights;And they heard the darkies plead “Come little Joe”!In the hush of policeless nights.And, Oh! What improvement the white man made!For us there were no bounds!We were riven away by a newer day,And no longer rolled on the ground.Thus point by point, and “pass” by “pass,”Onward thru cycles strange,We “sevened,” “elevened,” “nined,” and “fived,”And followed the chain of change;’Till there came a time in Gambledom’Midst many a weal and woe—They changed the name of this plucky gameTo “Bounding Domino.”Long were the “rolls” on the table-top.When the game would once begin;Longer the howls of the “folks-of-chance”When “hard-luck” came trooping in.O’er gold, and silver, and paper notes,They’d fight, and claw, and tear;And cheek by jowl—with words quite foulThey’d soil the clothes they’d wear.We were discovered so long agoIn a time that no man knows;Yet here tonight, in the mellow light,Near the race-track at Pamlico,Our eyes are dotted with half-carat stonesThat shine like the Devon Springs;And cute Flappers display us in publicQuite as proudly as diamond rings.It makes no difference if we are rolledFor a dollar, five, or ten.Our love is cold, our game is old,And the “sucker” our kith and kin.Tho cities have sprung above the gravesWhere the crook-boned-men made war,Let us drink anew to the time when youFound the hardest point was “Four.”Moral:REMEMBER, He who operates a barber-shop is not barbaric; He that studies the lunar system is not a lunatic; He who exists on a stew is not always a student; He who thinks that One Broadway makes New York has “muchly” to learn; And—He that caresseth the Uneasy Ivories is hastily disconnected from his dough.Never Shoot Crap!Never! Remember That!TOTAL MORAL: Play Poker Instead!
When you were part of an elephant’s tuskIn the Palezoic time,And I rode round in a walrus mouth’Mid the piscatorial slime,Or skittered with many a caudal flipThru the depths of a salmon fen—Our hearts were rife with that dentine life,But—I wasn’t with you then.That was before the colored manInvented the game called Crap;Before they cubed and spotted our sides,And tossed us toward Fortune’s Lap.But the world turned on in the lathe of time;The hot sands heaved amain;And our faces were polished with emery wheel—Then between us they made a game.At first they called us a “game of dice.”We were drab as a dead man’s hand:We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees,Or trailed thru the mud and sand.Sextette-sided, with corners round,Writing a language dumb;While fingers snapped and cash exchangedOn bets that we wouldn’t “come.”Later they labeled us “African Golf.”And they gave us a spin once more.Our forms were rolled in the clinging moldOf the Terra Firma shore.The aeons came, and the aeons fled,But the hand that held us fast,Was sure to hold us a bit too long,We tried hard, but—couldn’t “pass.”Then light and swift thru the jungle treesSwung the white men in their flights;And they heard the darkies plead “Come little Joe”!In the hush of policeless nights.And, Oh! What improvement the white man made!For us there were no bounds!We were riven away by a newer day,And no longer rolled on the ground.Thus point by point, and “pass” by “pass,”Onward thru cycles strange,We “sevened,” “elevened,” “nined,” and “fived,”And followed the chain of change;’Till there came a time in Gambledom’Midst many a weal and woe—They changed the name of this plucky gameTo “Bounding Domino.”Long were the “rolls” on the table-top.When the game would once begin;Longer the howls of the “folks-of-chance”When “hard-luck” came trooping in.O’er gold, and silver, and paper notes,They’d fight, and claw, and tear;And cheek by jowl—with words quite foulThey’d soil the clothes they’d wear.We were discovered so long agoIn a time that no man knows;Yet here tonight, in the mellow light,Near the race-track at Pamlico,Our eyes are dotted with half-carat stonesThat shine like the Devon Springs;And cute Flappers display us in publicQuite as proudly as diamond rings.It makes no difference if we are rolledFor a dollar, five, or ten.Our love is cold, our game is old,And the “sucker” our kith and kin.Tho cities have sprung above the gravesWhere the crook-boned-men made war,Let us drink anew to the time when youFound the hardest point was “Four.”
When you were part of an elephant’s tuskIn the Palezoic time,And I rode round in a walrus mouth’Mid the piscatorial slime,Or skittered with many a caudal flipThru the depths of a salmon fen—Our hearts were rife with that dentine life,But—I wasn’t with you then.That was before the colored manInvented the game called Crap;Before they cubed and spotted our sides,And tossed us toward Fortune’s Lap.But the world turned on in the lathe of time;The hot sands heaved amain;And our faces were polished with emery wheel—Then between us they made a game.At first they called us a “game of dice.”We were drab as a dead man’s hand:We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees,Or trailed thru the mud and sand.Sextette-sided, with corners round,Writing a language dumb;While fingers snapped and cash exchangedOn bets that we wouldn’t “come.”Later they labeled us “African Golf.”And they gave us a spin once more.Our forms were rolled in the clinging moldOf the Terra Firma shore.The aeons came, and the aeons fled,But the hand that held us fast,Was sure to hold us a bit too long,We tried hard, but—couldn’t “pass.”Then light and swift thru the jungle treesSwung the white men in their flights;And they heard the darkies plead “Come little Joe”!In the hush of policeless nights.And, Oh! What improvement the white man made!For us there were no bounds!We were riven away by a newer day,And no longer rolled on the ground.Thus point by point, and “pass” by “pass,”Onward thru cycles strange,We “sevened,” “elevened,” “nined,” and “fived,”And followed the chain of change;’Till there came a time in Gambledom’Midst many a weal and woe—They changed the name of this plucky gameTo “Bounding Domino.”Long were the “rolls” on the table-top.When the game would once begin;Longer the howls of the “folks-of-chance”When “hard-luck” came trooping in.O’er gold, and silver, and paper notes,They’d fight, and claw, and tear;And cheek by jowl—with words quite foulThey’d soil the clothes they’d wear.We were discovered so long agoIn a time that no man knows;Yet here tonight, in the mellow light,Near the race-track at Pamlico,Our eyes are dotted with half-carat stonesThat shine like the Devon Springs;And cute Flappers display us in publicQuite as proudly as diamond rings.It makes no difference if we are rolledFor a dollar, five, or ten.Our love is cold, our game is old,And the “sucker” our kith and kin.Tho cities have sprung above the gravesWhere the crook-boned-men made war,Let us drink anew to the time when youFound the hardest point was “Four.”
When you were part of an elephant’s tuskIn the Palezoic time,And I rode round in a walrus mouth’Mid the piscatorial slime,Or skittered with many a caudal flipThru the depths of a salmon fen—Our hearts were rife with that dentine life,But—I wasn’t with you then.
When you were part of an elephant’s tusk
In the Palezoic time,
And I rode round in a walrus mouth
’Mid the piscatorial slime,
Or skittered with many a caudal flip
Thru the depths of a salmon fen—
Our hearts were rife with that dentine life,
But—I wasn’t with you then.
That was before the colored manInvented the game called Crap;Before they cubed and spotted our sides,And tossed us toward Fortune’s Lap.But the world turned on in the lathe of time;The hot sands heaved amain;And our faces were polished with emery wheel—Then between us they made a game.
That was before the colored man
Invented the game called Crap;
Before they cubed and spotted our sides,
And tossed us toward Fortune’s Lap.
But the world turned on in the lathe of time;
The hot sands heaved amain;
And our faces were polished with emery wheel—
Then between us they made a game.
At first they called us a “game of dice.”We were drab as a dead man’s hand:We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees,Or trailed thru the mud and sand.Sextette-sided, with corners round,Writing a language dumb;While fingers snapped and cash exchangedOn bets that we wouldn’t “come.”
At first they called us a “game of dice.”
We were drab as a dead man’s hand:
We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees,
Or trailed thru the mud and sand.
Sextette-sided, with corners round,
Writing a language dumb;
While fingers snapped and cash exchanged
On bets that we wouldn’t “come.”
Later they labeled us “African Golf.”And they gave us a spin once more.Our forms were rolled in the clinging moldOf the Terra Firma shore.The aeons came, and the aeons fled,But the hand that held us fast,Was sure to hold us a bit too long,We tried hard, but—couldn’t “pass.”
Later they labeled us “African Golf.”
And they gave us a spin once more.
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold
Of the Terra Firma shore.
The aeons came, and the aeons fled,
But the hand that held us fast,
Was sure to hold us a bit too long,
We tried hard, but—couldn’t “pass.”
Then light and swift thru the jungle treesSwung the white men in their flights;And they heard the darkies plead “Come little Joe”!In the hush of policeless nights.And, Oh! What improvement the white man made!For us there were no bounds!We were riven away by a newer day,And no longer rolled on the ground.
Then light and swift thru the jungle trees
Swung the white men in their flights;
And they heard the darkies plead “Come little Joe”!
In the hush of policeless nights.
And, Oh! What improvement the white man made!
For us there were no bounds!
We were riven away by a newer day,
And no longer rolled on the ground.
Thus point by point, and “pass” by “pass,”Onward thru cycles strange,We “sevened,” “elevened,” “nined,” and “fived,”And followed the chain of change;’Till there came a time in Gambledom’Midst many a weal and woe—They changed the name of this plucky gameTo “Bounding Domino.”
Thus point by point, and “pass” by “pass,”
Onward thru cycles strange,
We “sevened,” “elevened,” “nined,” and “fived,”
And followed the chain of change;
’Till there came a time in Gambledom
’Midst many a weal and woe—
They changed the name of this plucky game
To “Bounding Domino.”
Long were the “rolls” on the table-top.When the game would once begin;Longer the howls of the “folks-of-chance”When “hard-luck” came trooping in.O’er gold, and silver, and paper notes,They’d fight, and claw, and tear;And cheek by jowl—with words quite foulThey’d soil the clothes they’d wear.
Long were the “rolls” on the table-top.
When the game would once begin;
Longer the howls of the “folks-of-chance”
When “hard-luck” came trooping in.
O’er gold, and silver, and paper notes,
They’d fight, and claw, and tear;
And cheek by jowl—with words quite foul
They’d soil the clothes they’d wear.
We were discovered so long agoIn a time that no man knows;Yet here tonight, in the mellow light,Near the race-track at Pamlico,Our eyes are dotted with half-carat stonesThat shine like the Devon Springs;And cute Flappers display us in publicQuite as proudly as diamond rings.
We were discovered so long ago
In a time that no man knows;
Yet here tonight, in the mellow light,
Near the race-track at Pamlico,
Our eyes are dotted with half-carat stones
That shine like the Devon Springs;
And cute Flappers display us in public
Quite as proudly as diamond rings.
It makes no difference if we are rolledFor a dollar, five, or ten.Our love is cold, our game is old,And the “sucker” our kith and kin.Tho cities have sprung above the gravesWhere the crook-boned-men made war,Let us drink anew to the time when youFound the hardest point was “Four.”
It makes no difference if we are rolled
For a dollar, five, or ten.
Our love is cold, our game is old,
And the “sucker” our kith and kin.
Tho cities have sprung above the graves
Where the crook-boned-men made war,
Let us drink anew to the time when you
Found the hardest point was “Four.”
Moral:
REMEMBER, He who operates a barber-shop is not barbaric; He that studies the lunar system is not a lunatic; He who exists on a stew is not always a student; He who thinks that One Broadway makes New York has “muchly” to learn; And—He that caresseth the Uneasy Ivories is hastily disconnected from his dough.
Never Shoot Crap!
Never! Remember That!
TOTAL MORAL: Play Poker Instead!
* * *
Is it you I love dear?I can scarcely tell.When you smile your eyes, dear,Make me think of Nell.When you’re sad, your mouth, dear,Makes me think of Sue,But, dear, when I kiss you,I am sure it’s you.
Is it you I love dear?I can scarcely tell.When you smile your eyes, dear,Make me think of Nell.When you’re sad, your mouth, dear,Makes me think of Sue,But, dear, when I kiss you,I am sure it’s you.
Is it you I love dear?I can scarcely tell.When you smile your eyes, dear,Make me think of Nell.When you’re sad, your mouth, dear,Makes me think of Sue,But, dear, when I kiss you,I am sure it’s you.
Is it you I love dear?
I can scarcely tell.
When you smile your eyes, dear,
Make me think of Nell.
When you’re sad, your mouth, dear,
Makes me think of Sue,
But, dear, when I kiss you,
I am sure it’s you.
* * *
By Gordon Campbell.
’Twas down in the Lehigh ValleyThat me and my pal, Lou,Was workin’ in a hash house,An’ a pretty good one too.It was there that I met Gonzola;She was the village belle,Now I was only a waiter,But I loved that gal like everything.Then along come a city feller,A slick haired son of the idle,An’ stole my darling little LouTo slip on the marriage bridle.So fill up the glasses, stranger,An’ I’ll be on my way;I’ll get the guy that stole my gal,If it takes till the judgment day.
’Twas down in the Lehigh ValleyThat me and my pal, Lou,Was workin’ in a hash house,An’ a pretty good one too.It was there that I met Gonzola;She was the village belle,Now I was only a waiter,But I loved that gal like everything.Then along come a city feller,A slick haired son of the idle,An’ stole my darling little LouTo slip on the marriage bridle.So fill up the glasses, stranger,An’ I’ll be on my way;I’ll get the guy that stole my gal,If it takes till the judgment day.
’Twas down in the Lehigh ValleyThat me and my pal, Lou,Was workin’ in a hash house,An’ a pretty good one too.
’Twas down in the Lehigh Valley
That me and my pal, Lou,
Was workin’ in a hash house,
An’ a pretty good one too.
It was there that I met Gonzola;She was the village belle,Now I was only a waiter,But I loved that gal like everything.
It was there that I met Gonzola;
She was the village belle,
Now I was only a waiter,
But I loved that gal like everything.
Then along come a city feller,A slick haired son of the idle,An’ stole my darling little LouTo slip on the marriage bridle.
Then along come a city feller,
A slick haired son of the idle,
An’ stole my darling little Lou
To slip on the marriage bridle.
So fill up the glasses, stranger,An’ I’ll be on my way;I’ll get the guy that stole my gal,If it takes till the judgment day.
So fill up the glasses, stranger,
An’ I’ll be on my way;
I’ll get the guy that stole my gal,
If it takes till the judgment day.
* * *
A Jack Johnson burst over the shell hole into which Pat and Mike had crawled. “Oi’ve been shot in the foot,” said Pat. Mike immediately placed Pat on his shoulder and started for the hospital. On his way there another shell took off Pat’s head. Arriving at the first aid station, the sentry hailed Mike.
“No use bringing any dead men in here,” he said. “That fellow’s head has been shot off.”
“Why, the son-of-a-gun,” exclaimed Mike, “he told me it was his foot.”
* * *
Pat—“Well, Mike, I just saw a doctor about my loss of memory.”
Mike—“What did he do?”
Pat—“He made me pay in advance.”
Questions and Answers
Dear Breezy Bill—“What’s the tallest tree you ever have seen?”—Ella Mental.
Up at Pequot we have a tree that is so big it takes two men to look at it; one man looks up at it as far as he can and the other man begins where the first left off.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I often have heard that there are lots of cows that do not give milk during the summer. Is this true?—O. Shoot.
Yes, in a way, but the next time anyone says such things you just tell them it’s “bull.”
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I am a girl fourteen years old and have a dog named Toddles. Should I let a boy of fifteen hug me?—Dot.
No, go in the house, and take the dog in, too.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I met a guy at a dance, he kissed me during the moonlight waltz. What shall I do?—Helen.
Lay off the moonlight waltzes.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—Could you tell me when Cuba was discovered?—Hi Drant.
July 1, 1919.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I am a young man only seventeen years old. My mother says I shouldn’t play with any rough girls. What shall I do?—Percy.
Do as your mother tells you, you little rascal.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—I am a boy eighteen years old and am in love with a bootlegger’s daughter. How can I tell her that I love her—Al. Hambra.
Send me her address.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—What are the secrets of success?—Harold Lloydette.
“Push,” said the button; “Take Pains,” said the window; “Never be led,” said the pencil; “Be up to date,” said the calendar; “Always keep cool,” said the ice; “Never lose your head,” said the hammer; “Make light of everything,” said the fire; “Find a good thing and stick to it,” said the glue.
* * *
Dear Old Skip—What are goofus feathers?—U. N. Omeal.
The fuzz on a peach.
* * *
Dear Admiral—What is the easiest way to catch a whiffempoof?—A. Fisher.
Throw a plug of tobacco in the water and hit him on the head with a club when he comes up to spit.
* * *
Dear Captain Bill—Why is it that flies can’t see in the winter time?—I. C. Fairlywell.
I suppose it is because they leave their specs behind in the summer time.
* * *
Dear Skipper—Can you dig me up a girl if I come to Robbinsdale to visit you?—Geehell.
Sure, but what’s the matter with me getting you a live one?
* * *
Dear Skipper—What is funnier than a one-arm man trying to wind his wrist watch?—Horace.
A glass eye at a keyhole.
* * *
Dear Skip—How is hash made?—Hi Water Shuz.
It isn’t made. It accumulates.
* * *
Dear Breezy Bill—What’s your idea of the height of optimism?—Peter Outt.
Changing your socks from one foot to the other so that the toes will not fit the holes.
* * *
Dear Captain Billy—Do you think that if I hired a pretty stenographer I would take more interest in my business?—J. G. P.
I don’t know whether you would take more interest in your business, but I know your wife will.
* * *
Dear Skipper—Who was the first original profiteer?—C. Serpent.
The whale that swallowed Jonah; he grabbed all the Prophet in sight.
* * *
In case your Ford misses, look in the exhaust pipe.
Pasture Pot Pourri
Dear Editor: While coming over to America on a steamer, the mate rushed up to me and threatened to blow up the ship if I didn’t give him a kiss.What did I do?I saved the lives of four hundred people.
Dear Editor: While coming over to America on a steamer, the mate rushed up to me and threatened to blow up the ship if I didn’t give him a kiss.
What did I do?
I saved the lives of four hundred people.
* * *
Lives of ’skeeters all remind us,While short skirts are all the go,That to them existence must beJust one great big burlesque show!
Lives of ’skeeters all remind us,While short skirts are all the go,That to them existence must beJust one great big burlesque show!
Lives of ’skeeters all remind us,While short skirts are all the go,That to them existence must beJust one great big burlesque show!
Lives of ’skeeters all remind us,
While short skirts are all the go,
That to them existence must be
Just one great big burlesque show!
* * *
Yes, Gus, ’tis sad but only too true that in Georgia the peaches grow on the limbs while at the beaches—but why break the monotony?
* * *
The hired hand, Gus, went to town the other night to a dance. When he got back he said that “nothing stands between certain dancers and pneumonia but a sense of loyalty to their employers.”
* * *
Oh, Myrt, do you know Aurora Borealis? They say she was all lit up last night.
* * *
No, Geraldine, Sandy Hook is not a Scotchman.
* * *
I was walking down the street the other day and on the far side was a fellow who looked familiar. “Hello, Bill,” I says. “Hello, Tom,” says he. “My name ain’t Tom,” I says. “Well, my name ain’t Bill, either,” says he. With that, I looks at him an’ he looks at me an’ sure enough, it was neither of us.
* * *
Our idea of a fast guy is one who can turn out the light and get in bed before the room gets dark.
* * *
Why don’t girls figure that it costs money to press trousers?
* * *
When a girl reading a novel begins to wet her lips, the hero and heroine are about to meet.
* * *
Girls will play fast and loose with men,We know; so what’s the use?So first we’ll hold the loose ones, then,We’ll turn the fast ones loose.
Girls will play fast and loose with men,We know; so what’s the use?So first we’ll hold the loose ones, then,We’ll turn the fast ones loose.
Girls will play fast and loose with men,We know; so what’s the use?So first we’ll hold the loose ones, then,We’ll turn the fast ones loose.
Girls will play fast and loose with men,
We know; so what’s the use?
So first we’ll hold the loose ones, then,
We’ll turn the fast ones loose.
* * *
The angels that fear to tread where fools rush in must miss a lot of fun.
* * *
A woman is not a heroine, Geraldine, just because she is dying for a man.
* * *
Our friend Hooper writes us that last fall he was in Alaska; went out to spend the evening with his best girl and didn’t come back for six months. Some night, we’d say.
* * *
A fellow who gets up at five o’clock in the morning so that he’ll have more time to loaf.
* * *
Heard a good joke this morning.Is it really a good one?Must be. My stenographer laughed until she almost fell off my lap when I told it to her.
Heard a good joke this morning.
Is it really a good one?
Must be. My stenographer laughed until she almost fell off my lap when I told it to her.
* * *
A fast night makes a slow day. How well do I know it this morning.
* * *
He—My love for you is like a rushing brook.She—Dam it!
He—My love for you is like a rushing brook.
She—Dam it!
* * *
Oh, for a world of equal balance. Here we find some women with no husbands atall, atall, while others have husbands and assistant husbands.
* * *
Women are like automobiles. Some are chummy roadsters and some are merely runabouts.
* * *
One of the latest song hits in Southern California is “And we will get a little bungalow in Hollywood and live our own sweet way.”
* * *
Indeed, Aloysius, you’re right—socks are the most frugal things in the world. They wouldn’t think of dropping a scent until they’re washed. Hoping you are the same, I am,Antiseptically speaking,Yours for safety first,Bilious Billy.
Indeed, Aloysius, you’re right—socks are the most frugal things in the world. They wouldn’t think of dropping a scent until they’re washed. Hoping you are the same, I am,
Antiseptically speaking,
Yours for safety first,
Bilious Billy.
* * *
Do you need any typewriter supplies? Yes, send me two pounds of candy and a box of chewing gum.
* * *
About the only amusement women appear to have nowadays is smoking cigarettes, shaking the shimmy, and shooting their husbands.
* * *
We wonder where the pictures that used to hang in the bar rooms are now?
* * *
Don’t bother bringing in the firewood, Mother. Father will be home with a load.
* * *
Me friend Mulligan says wan time whin two heads are not better than wan is whin you wake up the morning after the night before.
* * *
Said our pet pole cat to his pretty pal: “Now, dearie, do not be so high toned that you can’t use common sense.”
* * *
Talk about your nice dispositions—we have a man in our town who retires early rather than keep the bedbugs waiting for supper.
* * *
Has anyone heard that little ballad entitled “Who shot Nellie in the freckle?”
* * *
What could be sweeter than the rib music of choir-practors.