  Another red-blooded verse, dedicated to the great American rambler, will appear in the Whiz Bang for June—“The Gila Monster Route,” being the tale of a hobo on the Southern Pacific “Sunset” route. Excerpts from the poem give the swing: “A poor, old, seedy, half-starved bo, On a hostile pike without a show; ’Neath a cactus tree, with sand piled deep, On the Gila route came his last long sleep.” Recently the Whiz Bang received a letter from the cellhouse of Alcatraz federal penitentiary, located on an island overlooking San Francisco—the dread of the army—and in this letter was a pathetic poem from a prisoner, who begs that we publish it for the benefit of the humans on the “great outside.” “To be beaten and thrown in a dungeon, Where the eyes of mankind are blind, To be left for dead in this hell-hole of dread, Eternally losing your mind.” This appeal also will appear in the June Whiz Bang. * * * So many calls have been received at the Whiz Bang Farm for back copies containing certain Smokehouse Poems that we’ve decided to put out a book containing many of the gems of past issues, as well as new red-blooded poems, to be ready for our readers early this fall. The book of Smokehouse Poetry will be in addition to our new Winter Annual—Follies We’ve also had many calls for the works of Robert W. Service, which we must refer to the publishers, Barse & Hopkins, 21 Division Street, Newark, N. J. * * * Or Ever the Knightly Years Were GoneBy William Ernest Henley Or ever the knightly years were gone, With the old world to the grave, I was a king in Babylon, And you were a Christian slave. I saw, I took, I cast you by, I bent and broke your pride, You loved me well, or I heard them lie, But your longing was denied; Surely I knew that by and by You cursed your gods and died. And a myriad suns have set and shone, Since then upon the grave, Decreed by the king in Babylon, To her that had been his slave. The pride I trampled is now my scathe, For it tramples me again, The old resentment lasts like death, For you love, yet you refrain, I break my heart on your hard unfaith, And I break my heart in vain. Yet not for an hour do I wish undone, The dead beyond the grave, When I was a king in Babylon, And you were a Virgin slave. * * * Toledo SlimThe Whiz Bang has received so many requests for “Toledo Slim” that we will herewith publish this virile poem of the underworld. We were seated in a pool room on a cold December day, Telling jokes and funny stories just to pass the time away; When the door was softly opened and a form walked slowly in; All the boys soon stopped their kidding when they saw Toledo Slim. But a different man was he and they hardly knew the guy; He no longer wore the glad rags he had worn in days gone by. He took a look around him as he crept into the place. And we saw a look of hunger on his dirty, grimy face. “Hello, Slim, old pal!” said Boston Red; “you’re lookin’ on the pork; Why, you used to be the swellest guy of any in New York. Come, tell us, Slim, what happened that you are on the bum?” The crowd then gathered ’round him and the story Slim begun. ’Tis true I’m on the bum, boys; I’m on the hog for fair. But in the past I led them all, my roll was always there. I never turned an old pal down, I spent my money free. And all the sports along the line were glad to stick with me. I was an all ’round hustler, I trimmed the birdies right. I never shied at any game when greenbacks were in sight, But one sad night I met my fate; I fell like many more, That’s how I’m on the bum, boys, played out and feeling sore; It happened just five years ago, if I remember right, I trimmed a sucker for a roll and felt most out of sight. I took a stroll along the line; “set up” for all the boys, And just to pass the time away I dropped in Kid McCoy’s. And while I sat there drinking, getting on a mighty stew, A dead swell dame came in the place and sat beside me, too. I asked her if she’d have a drink, she sweetly said she would, And as I gazed into her eyes, I thought I understood. Perhaps you’ll think me fickle, pals, but it isn’t any dream; For when it comes to peachy looks that “Tommy” was the queen. We “chewed the rag” for quite a while, I “shot the con” for fair, (And when it comes to spreading salve, you may gamble I was there.) I told her I would place her in a finely furnished flat, And when the joint closed up that night I had my girlie pat. Next day we saw the parson and paid a month’s rent down. And then she went a hustling for work around the town. She’d get up in the morning, go out and get the grub; While I lay in my downy bed so humble and so snug. But if the day proved gloomy, then in the house we’d stop. She’d gather ’round the lay-out while I cooked the fragrant hop. When winter drew around at last and things were going fine, We had the swellest flat of any couple on the line. One night I had a job to do, the richest home in town; I got my tools and started out with my pal, Jackie Brown. We never thought we’d get a blow, the thing looked like a pipe. With all the folks a-sleeping and not a soul in sight, We put the goods into a sheet and started down the block. And just as luck would have it we bumped into a cop. We dropped the swag quick as a flash and started on the run, With the copper close behind us, a-shooting off his gun. But we were fleet as greyhounds and were halfway down the street, When a bullet hit me in the leg and I knew that I was beat. The copper stopped to handcuff me while Jackie got away, And I never saw his face again for many and many a day. Well, boys, I know you’ll guess the rest; they made short work of me. They sent me up the river to do my little “V.” But still I did not worry; I thought my girl would stick And keep the flat a-going while I did my little trick; I never thought she’d turn me down in 40,000 years; But when I think of what came off it almost brings the tears. At last the long years passed away and one bright summer day I started back to old New York so happy and so gay, But when I reached my little flat I found my girl had flown— She had run away with Jackie and left me all alone. It was then I took to boozing and went from bad to worse; I tried to drown my sorrow and forget the bitter curse, But the memory of that pretty face was always on my mind, So I searched the city over, but no trace of her could find. I roamed the streets at leisure seeking vainly for my prey, Looking for the man that ruined me and stole my girl away. I swore that I’d have his life for the trick that he had done. So I searched the country everywhere, knowing well my time would come. One day I met a wise guy who knew my pal full well. He said he was in ’Frisco and living mighty swell. The girl had died in Denver of consumption, so he said, Where my former pal had left her to starve from want of bread. It happened at a time, boys, when I didn’t have a cent; So I beat my way to Frisco with my mind on vengeance bent. One foggy day on Market Street I met him sure as fate; He tried to get the drop on me, but was a moment late. I sent a bullet crashing into the traitor’s brain, And then I made my getaway and “glommed” an eastbound train. That’s all there is to tell, boys; I’m like the rest of bums, I’ve lost all my ambition and don’t care what becomes— And as he finished talking, from his hip he drew a gun. In a moment came a sharp report—his grafting days were done. * * * The Midnight Glide of Pauline RevereListen, my children, and you shall hear, Of the famous wife of Paul Revere; While Paul flivvered out on his midnight ride, Do you think she camped at the old fireside? Emphatically no, but like the modern girl, She busted right out for a shimmie whirl, She parked where the lights were glowing bright, To do a few steps of the “Hold-Me-Tight;” She “copped” a partner, a boy from college, Who just returned from a hall of knowledge, With a bean chuck full of “mule” and school, This “rah-rah” boy was a dancing fool; They dangled a hoof and shook them all, From the “Frontporch-Swing” to the “Downstairs-Fall,” When the band started jazzing that song of repose Of “Just Kiss Me, Doc, and Burn All My Clothes,” They would clinch and grapple in vise-like embrace, And he’d plant his “map” up the side of her face. With his right “lunch-hook” her waist he’d entwine, You’d almost think he was massaging her spine. And thus clamped together they would trot and trip And shake all the movements of the “Slovenly-Slip,” The “Kitchen-Sink” and the “Box-Car-Bump,” The “Cellar-Step” and the “Public-Dump,” The “Old-Boardwalk” and the “Arctic-Shivver,” The “Back-Yard-Dash” and the “St. Vitus Quiver,” The “Old-Milk-Shake” and the “Slippery-Slide,” The “Wormy-Wiggle” and the “Peruvian-Glide.” The Moral is this, “When all’s done and said, Why go to a dance, when you got music at home?” —W. K. Edwards. * * * The Anxious DeadIn the April issue, the Whiz Bang published the noted poem of Lt. Col. John McCrae, “In Flanders Field.” Here is his other masterpiece, “The Anxious Dead,” and also “America’s Answer,” by R. W. Lillard, and “Poppies,” by J. Eugene Chrisman. By Lt.-Col. John McCrae Oh guns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions passing on; Those fought their fight in time of bitter fear, And died not knowing how the day had gone. Oh flashing muzzle, pause and let them see, The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar; Then let your mighty chorus witness be To them and Caesar, that we still make war. Tell them, oh guns, that we have heard their call, That we have sworn and will not turn aside, That we will onward till we win or fall, That we will keep the faith for which they died. Bid them be patient, and some day, anon, They shall feel earth enrapt in silence deep, Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn, And in content may turn them to their sleep. * * * America’s AnswerBy R. W. Lillard Rest ye in peace, ye Flanders dead. The fight that ye so bravely led We’ve taken up. And we will keep True faith with you who lie asleep With each a cross to mark his bed, And poppies blowing overhead, Where once his own life blood ran red. So let your rest be sweet and deep In Flanders fields. Fear not that ye have died for naught. The torch ye threw to us we caught. Ten million hands will hold it high, And Freedom’s light will never die! We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught In Flanders fields. * * * PoppiesBy J. Eugene Chrisman Poppies? Not for me, buddy! Buds o’ Hell I’d call ’em, Plain red hell—they— They remind me—— And folks plant ’em around Gardens—huh! Says one old dame to me, “Don’t they bring back,” says she, “The poppied fields of Flanders?” “Poppied fields of—” ain’t that a heluva— But who wants ’em brung back—huh? Say, buddy, If she’d seen poppies Like I’ve seen ’em—millions—acres— Scattered through the wheat-fields, Red—and gettin’ redder—mostly poppies— Yeah—mostly! Slim—my buddy—old scout Slept under the same handkerchief, Me ’n’ Slim—clean through from the word go! I’m liable to forgit—ain’t I— Day we kicked off west o’ ChÂteau-Thierry Down the valley— Poppies—say, You couldn’t rest for poppies. Then the Jerries cut loose Machine-gun fire—reg’lar sickle. Poppy leaves—bits o’ red Flickin’ and flutterin’ in the wind, Mowed ’em, buddy—and us—I’ll tell the world! Got old Slim—got him right! Down in the poppies he goes—kickin’—clawin’! Don’t talk poppies to me— Skunk cabbage first—compree? If you’d seen old Slim— Boy, he died wallerin’ in poppies! Poppies— Hell! * * * Our Lonely Love-Sick GobThis poem was not written by Kipling, nor has it passed the scrutiny of our village schoolmaster, but what it lacks in rhetoric is made up in punch. “I made this up about a girl that turned me down over a shipmate of mine, and will thank you to publish it for the benefit of other love-sick gobs,” writes the author, a sailor at the Philadelphia naval station. Now, listen shipmates, listen, And I shall tell to you, How once I met a girlie, Just like other fellows do. I loved her, yes, I loved her, And I know she knew it well, But I tipped her to a shipmate, And he held her in his spell. He enraptured her with stories, And he said I was not true, When next I met my loved one, She said, “I’m through with you.” I’ve told you all I know, boys, Or all I care to tell, So if you love a girlie, Gobs, Have your shipmates go tu’ell. * * * Human NatureAbsence makes the heart grow fonder, Peroxide makes the blonde grow blonder, Onions make the breath grow stronger, But Bunk makes the grass grow longer. * * * I love a lassie, She’s skinny, but she’s classy, She’s as neat as the paper on the wall; She’s got a face like a dragon, A shape like a horse and wagon, She’s my lassie of the Scotch mask ball. * * * Soldier’s PrayerNow I lay me down to sleep, I pray Thee, please, my soul to keep, Grant no other soldier take My shoes and socks before I wake. Try and guard me in my sleep, And keep my bunk upon its feet, And in the morning let me wake Breathing whiffs of sirloin steak. Please protect me in my dreams, And make it better than it seems, Grant the time may swiftly fly When I myself may rest (or try) In a snowy feather bed, With a pillow ’neath my head. Far away from all these scenes, From the smell of hash and beans, Take me back into the land, Where they don’t scrub down with sand. And Thou knowest all my woes, Feed me in my dyin’ throes, Take me back and I promise Thee Never more to cross the sea. * * * My Sarah JaneShe’s knockkneed; she’s lazy; She’s bow-legged; she’s crazy; She’s maul-eyed, she’s wall-eyed, she’s lame. Well, her teeth are all false, from indulging in salts, She’s my cockeyed, consumptive Plain Jane. * * * My GirlMy girl was the best of girls, Her curls were the prettiest of curls. No girl had lips so sweet, No girl had such dainty feet. My girl never told a lie, Not even to me. What a shame my girl must die At the age of three. |
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