Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2. No. 17, February, 1921 / America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

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.”

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.

The Shimmy Shaker

By CARL M. HIGDON

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 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-shaking

She’s a shimmy-shaking fool.

* * *

A Tom Fooler Rhyme

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 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 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.

“Holy smoke!” the preacher shouted;

In the rain he lost his hair;

Now his head resembles Heaven,

For there is no parting there.

* * *

How’s Business

“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.”

* * *

Answer from Your Heart

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 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?

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.

* * *

A Sailor’s Delight

By HAROLD TAYLOR

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 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.

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 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 love

He’ll sail across the blue.

* * *

The Hop-head Blues

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 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.

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 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 mud

And a hop cook from the Orient.

* * *

Pangs of Conscience

By B. T., Los Angeles

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 me

Everything I ever had.

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 smokes

The hashish pill.

* * *

She May Remember This

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 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.

* * *

Still at It

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.

* * *

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 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 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 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 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.

* * *

Down in Oklahoma

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.

* * *

In Lapland

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.”

* * *

Barbara Frietchie

(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 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 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 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.

* * *

Eve’s Retrospection

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.”

* * *

Pickled 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.

* * *

Shame on You, Oscar

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.”

* * *

Passing the Buck

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.

* * *

At the Beach

“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.”

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