Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 18, March, 1921 / America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

Smokehouse Poetry

Lasca, the rhythmic tale of a girl of the Rio Grande and the stampede pictured by Paul Desprez will lead the Smokehouse Poetry for April. With it also will be “In Flanders Field,” by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCray, which is being published after many requests. Colonel McCray’s simple song of tragedy was the Marsellaise of the great world war. The author was a surgeon with the Canadian Expeditionary forces and wrote the poem during the battle of Ypres.

The Shooting of Dan McGrew

By Robert W. Service.

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malemuke saloon,

The Kid that tickled the music-box, was playing a jag-time tune;

Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,

While watching his luck was the light of his love.

The Lady—that was known as Lou.

When out of the night which was fifty below

And into the din and the glare

There stumbled a miner, fresh from the creeks,

Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.

He looked like a man with one foot in the grave

And scarcely the strength of a louse,

As he tilted a poke of dust on the bar

And called for the drinks for the house.

There was none could place the stranger’s face,

Though we searched ourselves for a clew;

But we drank to his health, and the last to drink,

Was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There are men that somehow just grip your eyes

And hold them hard like a spell,

And such was he for he looked to me

Like a man who had lived in hell.

With a face most hair, and a glassy stare

Like a dog whose day is done

As he watered the green stuff in his glass

And the drops fell one by one.

Then I got to figuring who he was

And wondering what he’d do

When I turned, and there stood watching him

Was the Lady, who was known as Lou.

The stranger’s eyes wandered round the room

And seemed in a kind of a daze

Till at last that old piano fell

In the way of his wandering gaze.

The Rag-time Kid was having a drink

There was no one else on the stool

And the stranger stumbled across the room

And flopped down there like a fool.

In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt

He sat and I seen him sway

With a talon hand he clutched the keys

God, but that man could play.

Were you ever out on the great alone,

When the night was awful clear

And the icy mountains held you in

With a silence that you most could hear.

With only the howl of a timber wolf

As you camped out there in the cold

A half-dead thing in a stark dead world

Clean mad, for the muck, called gold.

While high overhead green, yellow, and red

The Northern lights swept in bars

Then you’ve a hunch what the music meant

Hunger night, and the stars.

Hunger, not of the belly kind

That’s banished with bacon and beans.

But the gnawing hunger of a lonely man

For a home, and all that it means.

For a fireside far, from the cares that are

Four walls and a roof above

But oh, so cram full of cozy joy

And crowned with a woman’s love.

A woman dearer than all the world

And true as heaven is true

God, how ghastly she looks through her rouge

The Lady, who was known as Lou.

The music almost died away, so soft

That you scarce could hear,

And you felt that your life had been looted

Of all that it once held dear.

That someone had stolen the woman you loved

And her love was a devil’s lie

And your guts were gone and the best for you

Was to crawl away and die.

’Twas the crowning glory of a heart’s dispair

And it thrilled you through and through

I guess I’ll make it a spread Misere

Said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost died away

Then oft burst like a pent-up flood

And it seemed to say, repay, repay

And your eyes went blind with blood.

And the thought came back like an ancient wrong

And it stung like a frozen lash

And the lust awoke, to kill, to kill,

And the music stopped with a flash.

The stranger turned and his eyes they burned

In a most peculiar way

In a buck-skin shirt that was glazed with dirt

He sat and I seen him sway.

Then, his lips went in in a kind of grin

And he spoke and his voice was strong

And boys, said he, you don’t know me

And none of you care a Damn.

But I want to state, and my words are straight

And I’ll bet my poke their true

That one of you is a “Hound of Hell”

And that one is Dan McGrew.

Then I ducked my head and the lights went out

And two guns blazed in the dark

Then the lights went up and a woman screamed

And two men lay stiff and stark.

Pitched on his head and pumped full of lead

Lay Dangerous Dan McGrew,

While the man from the creeks, lay crushed to the breast

Of the Lady that was known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case

And I guess I ought to know

They said that the stranger was crazed with hooch

And I’m not denying it’s so.

I’m not so wise as there lawyer guys

But strictly between us two

The woman that kissed him and pinched his poke

Was the Lady, that was known as Lou.

* * *

My Little Home-Made Bar

While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing;

Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm.

If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season,

At my door, an endless line would straightway form,

Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid,

It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare,

For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar,

That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.

Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters,

By arresting them and placing them in jail;

Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated,

Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail,

So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a party

Of my own without a solitary care,

Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers,

In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.

* * *

I Doubt If You Don’t

When the Whiz Bang first made its debut into the world in 1919, we published the poem, “I Don’t.” Now steps up a contributor and offers an answer to it. Both of them have punch and pep, so we are offering these twin sisters of poetic mirth for your approval herewith.—The Editor.

I Don’t

My mama told me not to smoke—

I Don’t.

Nor listen to a naughty joke—

I Don’t.

They made it clear I must not wink

At handsome men nor even think

About intoxicating drink—

I Don’t.

To dance and flirt is very wrong—

I Don’t.

Wild girls chase men, wine and song—

I Don’t.

I kiss no boys, not even one.

I do not know how it is done.

You wouldn’t think I’d have much fun—

I Don’t.

* * *

In Answer to the Above

When a pair of red lips are upturned to your own,

With none to gossip about it;

Do you pray for endurance and—leave them alone;

Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.

When a shy little hand you’re permitted to seize,

With a velvety softness about it;

Do you think you can drop it, with never a squeeze;

Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.

When a tapering waist is in reach of your arm,

With a wonderful plumpness about it;

Do you argue the point ’twixt the good and the harm;

Well, maybe you do—but—I doubt it.

* * *

A Ballad of Forsaken Wives

By Mrs. Henry Mobley.

My husband’s gone and left me

In the hills of Brown;

Forsaken me on account of

Others of this little town.

He’s always been a blacksmith;

I treated the man well;

The last words he told me

Were, I’d better go to hell.

It was awful hard to swallow,

Hard to get it down.

Now he’s forsaken me for

Others of this little town.

He wants a younger woman

In his older day;

He says I’m getting old,

And am turning gray.

I always tried to treat him right

And do the best I could,

But the worst words he could

Say to me always done him good.

He is getting old and

I am getting gray;

But he’ll see the time he’ll wish

He hadn’t went away.

He’s gone and left me

And left me all alone;

Perhaps he’ll take one with him

He can call his own.

He’s gone and left me

In the hills of Brown;

Forsaken me on account of

Others of this little town.

He’s mine; let him go;

God bless him where’er he may be;

He can travel the wide world over

And never find one like me.

* * *

The Dying Hobo

’Twas dawn by a western water tank,

One cold November day;

There in an open boxcar,

A dying hobo lay.

His partner stood beside him,

With a sadly drooping head,

Listening to the last words

That the dying hobo said.

Good-by old pal, I’m going

To a land where all is bright,

Where handouts grow in the bushes,

And you can sleep out every night.

The dying hobo’s head dropped back,

And as he sang his last refrain,

His partner stole his shoes and socks

And grabbed an eastbound train.

* * *

Said a giddy old maid named Biddy McHugh,

I’d like to be good and I’d like to be true,

For it’s good to be good,

But I’m not made of wood,

Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, no wonder I’m blue.

* * *

Two Women

By N. P. Willis.

The shadows lay along Broadway,

’Twas near the twilight tide—

And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.

Alone walked she; but viewlessly,

Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,

And honor charmed the air,

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good and fair—

For all God ever gave to her

She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare

From lovers warm and true—

For her heart was cold to all but gold,

And the rich came not to woo—

But honored well are charms to sell

If rites the SELLING do.

Now walking there was one more fair—

A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail—

’Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow,

For this world’s peace to pray;

For, as Love’s wild prayer dissolved in air,

Her woman’s heart gave way!—

But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven

By man is cursed alway.

* * *

Ring around the rosy,

Cellar full of booze;

We can have a party

Any time we choose.

* * *

The Night Before Pay Day

’Twas the night before pay day and all through my jeans

I searched but in vain for the price of some beans.

Not a quarter was stirring—not even a jit;

The coin was off-duty—milled edges had quit.

Move forward! Move forward! Oh time, in thy flight,

Make it tomorrow—just for tonight.

* * *

Hubby came home, tangle-footed,

His wifie met him at the door,

Grabbed the bottle from his pocket—

“Empty? Go and get some more!”

* * *

Irene Talbot, skillful typist,

Works for Dave A. Masterbilt.

Writes a neat and snappy letter,

Marks it in this way: “DAM/IT.”

* * *

A Plea for the Prodigal Girl

By O. D. Copeland.

I have read of the death of the martyrs; the story of Peter and Paul,

The story of Luther and Calvin—I respect and honor them all;

And also old Thomas and Stephen, honest and faithful men,

And I’ve read the sweet story of Jesus, and expect to read it again,

I’ve read of the Good Samaritan, of charity’s lesson begun,

And my heart goes out in great pity to the wayward, prodigal son.

All are so glad to welcome him, so quick to forget and forgive,

It makes no difference what he has done, if only comes back to live;

They have always prayed for the prodigal boy since ever the world begun,

The joy, the glory, forgiveness of the returning wayward son,

But poets seem to forget to write of the saddest thing in the world—

They are not so eager to welcome back the poor little prodigal girl.

Just why she has turned out crooked—she happened to strike “the right one,”

Who had the slick tongue of a Judas—and that was your prodigal son;

Though the boy is upheld and forgiven, it is common all over the world,

That you scornfully point out for gossip the poor little prodigal girl.

There is nothing so truly pathetic as the life of the maidens who fall,

And if you search down to the bottom, you will find man the cause of it all.

But he is led back in society and nursed with the tenderest care,

Held up to the world as a hero, and mentioned in fervent prayer,

While she is cast out from her loved ones; out in the hard, cruel world,

And everyone points out and scorns her, the poor little prodigal girl,

Now, as has been said quite often, and we will repeat it again,

That the lowest of fallen women are better than most of the men.

* * *

Ten-year Mary saw her mother

Dolled all up—skirt “a la sport.”

“Mama, when will I be grown up

And can wear my dresses short?”

* * *

Ahoy, Liza’s Fig Tree!

Returning from France, a colored trooper was awakened from his nap on the deck by a companion who shouted to him to get up and look at a passing sail boat.

“Niggah,” drowsily answered the reclined trooper, “Don’t you all waken me agin till we pass a tree.”

* * *

Something to Worry About

In Persia boys and girls never play together.

* * *

Customer in soft drink parlor—Hey there, bartender, stop killing those flies! Don’t you suppose I want a little kick in my beer?

* * *

Squaring Himself

Everyone has heard authentic stories of the man who asked another: “Who is that old slob over yonder?” and got the reply: “She is my wife.” But the story doesn’t go far enough.

Jones observed an old lady sitting across the room.

“For heaven’s sake!” he remarked to Robinson, “who is that extraordinarily ugly woman there?”

“That,” answered Robinson, “is my wife.”

Jones was taken aback, but moved up front again.

“Well,” he said persuasively, “you just ought to see mine!”

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