Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2. No. 13, October, 1920 / America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

Smokehouse Poetry

Various

The Passing of Old Smokehouse

When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears,

A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,

Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,

And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.

Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,

But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part;

And oft the passing traveler drove slow and heaved a sigh

To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posey garden that the women loved so well.

I loved it, too, but better still I loved the stronger smell

That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,

And told the night-o’ertaken tramp that human life was near.

On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower,

Delighted, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.

For there the summer morning its very cares entwined,

And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

* * *

Poor Girlie

My parents told me not to smoke;

I don’t.

Nor listen to a naughty joke;

I don’t.

They told me it was wrong to wink

At handsome men, or even think

About intoxicating drink;

I don’t.

To dance or flirt was very wrong;

I don’t.

Wild girls chase men and wine and song;

I don’t.

I kiss no men, not even one—

In fact, I don’t know how it’s done;

You wouldn’t think I have much fun—

I don’t.

* * *

Hunting the Wily Pole Cat

(As told by a French-Canadian).

I’m hunt de bear, I’m hunt de rat

Sometimes I’m hunt de cat;

Las week I’m tak ma ax an go

To hunt de skunk pole cat.

Ma fren Bill says hees ver good fur,

Same time good for eat,

So I tell ma wife, “I get fur coat

Same time get some meat.”

I walk, one, two, three, four mile.

I feel one awful smell—

I theenk that skunk hees gone and died

And fur coat’s gone to hal.

Bime-by I get up ver ver close,

I raise ma ax up high—

Dat gaddum skunk he up and plunk,

Trow something in ma eye.

Sacre blu; I tink ahm blin—

Gee Cri! Ah cannot see,

Ah run aroun and roun and roun

Till bump in gaddum tree.

Bime-bye I drop de ax

An light out for de shack

I tink about a milyun skunk

Hees climb upon ma back.

Ma wife she meet me at de door,

She sick on me de dog,

She say, “You no sleep here tonight,

Go out and sleep wit hog.”

I try to get in hog pen,

Gee Cri, now what you tink,

Dat gaddum hog no stan for dat

On count of awful stink.

So I no hunt de skunk no more

To get hees fur and meat;

For if hees breath he smell so bad,

Gee Cri! what if he speet.

* * *

The Girl with the Blue Velvet Band

In that city of wealth, beauty and fashion;

Dear old Frisco, where I first saw the light,

And the many frolics that I had there

Are still fresh in my memory tonight.

One evening while out for a ramble;

Here or there without thought or design,

I chanced on a young girl tall and slender,

On the corner of Kearney and Pine.

On her face was the first flush of nature,

And bright eyes seemed to expand;

While her hair fell in rich, brilliant masses,

Was entwined in a Blue Velvet Band.

To a house of gentle ruination,

She invited me with a sweet smile;

She seemed so ready, inviting;

That I thought I would tarry awhile.

She then shared with me a collection

Of wines of an excellent brand,

And conversed in politest language;

This girl with the Blue Velvet Band.

After lunch, to a well-kept apartment,

We repaired to the third floor above;

And I thought myself truly in heaven,

Where reigneth the goddess of love.

Her lady’s taste was resplendent,

From the graceful arrangement of things;

From the pictures that stood on the bureau,

To a little bronze Cupid with wings.

But what struck me the most was an object

’Twas the costly “lay-out” of a hop-fiend,

And that fiend was my Blue Velvet Band.

On a pile of soft robes and pillows;

She reclined, I declare, on the floor,

Then we both hit the pipe and I slumbered,

I ponder it over and o’er.

’Tis months since the craven arm grasped me,

And in bliss did my life glide away;

From opium to “dipping” and thieving,

She artfully led day by day.

One evening, coming home wet and dreary,

With the swag from a jewelry store;

I heard the soft voice of my loved one,

As I gently opened the door.

“If you’ll give me a clue to convict him,”

Said a stranger, in tones soft and grand,

“You’ll then prove to me that you love me”;

“It’s a go,” said my Blue Velvet Band.

Ah! How my heart filled with anger,

At woman, so fair, false and vile,

And to think that I once true adored her;

Brought to my lips a mock smile.

All ill-gotten gains we had squandered,

And my life was hers to command;

Betrayed and deserted for another—

Could this be my Blue Velvet Band?

Just a few moments before I was hunted

By the cops, who wounded me, too.

And my temper was none the sweetest,

As I swung myself into their view.

And the copper, not liking the glitter

Of the “44” Colt in my hand;

Hurriedly left through the window,

Leaving me with my Blue Velvet Band.

Had she been true when I met her,

Great future for us was in store,

For I was an able mechanic,

And honest and square to the core.

What happened to me I will tell you;

I was “ditched” for a desperate crime;

There was hell in a bank about midnight,

And my pal was shot down in his prime.

As a convict of hard reputation,

Ten years of hard grind I did land,

And I often thought of the pleasures

I had with my Blue Velvet Band.

One night as bed time was ringing

I was standing close to the bars

I fancied I heard a girl singing

Far out in the ocean of stars.

Her voice had the same touch of sadness

I knew that but one could command,

It had the same thrill of gladness

As that of my Blue Velvet Band.

Dear pals, when my “hitch” is completed,

Back to Frisco I’ll journey again;

Where my chances are worth a few dollars—

All the way from a thousand to ten.

Once again I will try to live honest;

Though I go to some far distant land,

And bid adios to dear Frisco

And the girl with the Blue Velvet Band.

* * *

The Little Red God

Here’s a little red song to the god of guts,

Who dwells in palaces, brothels, huts;

The little Red God with the craw of grit;

The god who never learned how to quit;

He is neither a fool with a frozen smile,

Or a sad old toad in a cask of bile;

He can dance with a shoe-nail in his heel

And never a sign of his pain reveal;

He can hold a mob with an empty gun

And turn a tragedy into fun;

Kill a man in a flash, a breath,

Or snatch a friend from the claws of death;

Swallow the pill of assured defeat

And plan attack in his slow retreat;

Spin the wheel till the numbers dance,

And bite his thumb at the god of Chance;

Drink straight water with whisky-soaks,

Or call for liquor with temperance folks;

Tearless stand at the graven stone,

Yet weep in the silence of night, alone;

Worship a sweet, white virgin’s glove,

Or teach a courtesan how to love;

Dare the dullness of fireside bliss,

Or stake his soul for a wanton’s kiss;

Blind his soul to a woman’s eyes

When she says she loves and he knows she lies;

Shovel dung in the city mart

To earn a crust for his chosen art;

Build where the builders all have failed,

And sail the seas that no man has sailed;

Run a tunnel or dam a stream,

Or damn the men who financed the dream;

Tell a pal what his work is worth,

Though he lost his last best friend on earth;

Lend the critical monkey-elf

A razor—hoping he’ll kill himself;

Wear the garments he likes to wear,

Never dreaming that people stare;

Go to church if his conscience wills,

Or find his own—in the far, blue hills.

He is kind and gentle, or harsh and gruff;

He is tender as love—or he’s rawhide tough;

A rough-necked rider in spurs and chaps,

Or well-groomed son of the town—perhaps;

And this is the little Red God I sing,

Who cares not a wallop for anything

That walks or gallops, that crawls or struts,

No matter how clothed—if it hasn’t guts.

* * *

Me for the Cave Man

By Charles C. Walts.

I want a Cave-man rugged and tough

To bite my neck and treat me rough.

To hold me whether I screech or bluff;

Me for the Cave-man stuff!

I want a Cave-man who can pick me up,

Slam me around like an ornery pup,

Out of his hand I would eat and sup—

Me for the Cave-man stuff!

I want a Cave-man when I’ve the blues

To take me and shake me out of my shoes,

To swear by note in lurid hues—

Me for the Cave-man stuff.

I want a Cave-man just for luck,

I’ll not be any sissy’s “duck,”

I’m no “honey” or any such truck—

Me for the Cave-man stuff!

* * *

The Profiteer

By George D. Brewer

When God made the buzzard, the toad and the snake;

As well as the worm and the rat,

He stirred what was left of the entrails and ends,

In an air-tight asbestos vat.

From this corrupt mass of intestines and muck

He skimmed the most rancid, I hear,

And took it away to a corner in hell

And from it produced a food profiteer.

* * *

Explosion of Pedigreed Cat

(With Apologies to Captain Billy’s “Explosion of Pedigreed Bull”)

A Persian kitty, perfumed and fair,

Strayed out through the kitchen door for air,

When a Tom Cat, lean and lithe and strong

And dirty and yellow came along.

He sniffed at the perfumed Persian cat,

As she strutted about with much eclat,

And thinking a bit of time to pass,

He whispered: “Kiddo, you sure have class.”

“That’s fitting and proper,” was her reply

As she arched the whiskers over her eye,

“I’m ribboned, I sleep in a pillow of silk

And daily they bathe me in certified milk.”

“Yet we’re never contented with what we’ve got

I try to be happy, but happy I’m not.

And I should be joyful, I should, indeed,

For I certainly am highly pedigreed.”

“Cheer up,” said the Tom Cat, with a smile,

“And trust your new found friend a while.

You need to escape from your back yard fence;

My dear, all you need is experience.”

New joys of life he then unfurled,

As he told her tales of the outside world,

Suggesting at last, with a luring laugh,

A trip for the two down the “Primrose Path.”

The morning after the night before

The “Cat Came Back” at the hour of four,

The look in her innocent eyes had went

But the smile on her face was the smile of content.

And in the after days when children came

To the Persian kitty of pedigreed fame,

They weren’t Persian—they were black and tan,

And she told them their pa was a traveling man.

* * *

Summer Idyl

The dragon-flies are on the wing—

Oh, would some power command ’em

To fly like any decent thing,

Instead of traveling tandem!

* * *

Bomb, Bomb, Bomb

We were bombed last night, we were bombed the night before

And we’re gonna be bombed tonight as we were never bombed before;

When we’re bombed, we’re as scared as we can be,

They can bomb the whole damned army if they don’t bomb me!

CHORUS

They’re over us, they’re over us,

One little cave for the four of us;

Glory be to God there are no more of us

Or they’d bomb the whole damned crew!

* * *

Wild Woman

If she drinks, we have taught her.

If she smokes, we showed her how.

If she has any bad habits,

What’s the use to knock her now?

For God made man, and God made woman,

Both on a different plan.

So if women do go wrong,

It’s done by us, the man.

* * *

It Used to Be

Booze, booze, you’re my guest.

You often keep me from my rest;

You often make my friends my foes;

You often make me wear old clothes;

But as you are so near my nose—

Tip her up, pals, and down she goes.

* * *

Memory

By Oscar C. Williams.

When I review the days we spent up there

Upon Youth’s mountain-top, when we had thrilled

To the throbbing of a love that God had willed,

And sipped together joyously the rare,

Rich strangeness of the brimming hours and fair—

When I review all this, those days so filled

With life, I realize how much was spilled.

We did not mind, we had so much to spare!

* * *

Friend Wife

Here’s to the girl I love the best.

I’ve kissed her without ’em

And I’ve kissed her dressed;

I’ve kissed her sitting

And I’ve kissed her lying,

And—Gol darn her soul—

If she had wings I’d kiss her flying.

* * *

Hold Fast

Poet, never chase the dream.

Laugh yourself and turn away.

Mask your hunger, let it seem

Small matter if he come or stay;

But when he nestles in your hand at last,

Close up your fingers tight and hold him fast.

—Robert Graves.

* * *

Sam’s Girl

By Charles C. Walts

Sam’s girl is tall and slender;

My girl is fat and low.

Sam’s girl wears silks and satins;

My girl wears calico.

Sam’s girl is swift and speedy;

My girl demure and good.

Do you think I’d swap for Sam’s girl?

You know darn well I would!

* * *

Good Night

You sing a little song or two,

You have a little chat,

You make a little candy fudge

And then you take your hat.

You hold her hand and say “good night,”

As sweetly as you can—

Ain’t that a heluva an evening

For a great big healthy man?

* * *

Twentieth Century Jazz

By Carrie Blaine Yeiser

I ain’t a-comin’ back

Till I know why,

I ain’t a-goin to live

Where I have to die!

Man drifts to earth

Like a summer cloud—

Next comes the hearse

And a linen shroud.

Nailed in a box,

Served to the worms,

’Thout bein’ consulted

Nor asked to make terms.

This thing o’ livin’

An’ dyin’ again,

Is same as a hog

Cooped up in a pen.

He’s got just so long

To wallow in swill,

So he grunts about—

Never gettin’ his fill.

Then his light is put out

An’ he’s served in chops,

On a linen cloth

To a bunch o’ wops.

So, I won’t be squeezed into a body again

Till I know the wherefore, why, an’ when.

An’ I reckon—time I grow that wise,

I’ll be headin’ for the gates o’ Paradise.

* * *

The Answer

Why is it folks are drinking more

Since Prohibition than before?

The reason’s easy to perceive,

The same old Snake that tempted Eve

With the Forbidden Fruit to play

Is on the job again today,

And pious folk who never took

A drop in all their lives, now look

Upon the wine when it is red

Because it is prohibited!

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