Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 21, June, 1921 / America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

Smokehouse Poetry

Introducing, in our July issue, George J. Liebst, alias “The Hobo Jungle Poet of the West!” Swing under Number Nine of the Santa Fe line with our knight of the bumpers and beams next issue and attend, in verse, Mr. Liebst’s “Hobo Convention” at Portland, Oregon! The author explains that the clickitty-clack of the wheels on the rails, as he hears them from a swinging position on the rods of Number Nine, furnish the metre of his jungle poem. He tells you who was at the great convention—

“Texas Slim from Lone Star,

”And Jack, the Katydid;

“Lonesome Lew from Kalamazoo,

“And the San Diego Kid.”

Put on your hobo clothes and travel with the Whiz Bang to the “convention” in the July issue!

Next month we’re to witness a great ball game, in which the Mighty Casey, who, as you may recall, struck out in the famous ninth and lost the same for Mudville, stages a comeback! Get ready for this “curve.” It’s a home-run winner!

* * *

Way down in the Garden of Eden

Was Adam with Eve on his knee.

They never sat down,

But just laid around,

In the Shade of the Old Apple Tree.

* * *

The Island By the Sea

The following lines were written by a soldier of the United States army while under restriction and confinement as a general prisoner at Alcatraz Island, California. There has been a dread about this military citadel which is only equalled in the regular army by the Philippine prison of Bilibid. Both are looked on as dark hell-hole dungeons for the regular soldier.

By An Alcatraz Prisoner

Only a short ride from ’Frisco,

On a rock resting out in the sea;

A dungeon for “soldier convicts—”

The home of the U. S. D. B.

There we lay on our bed of hard metal,

And think of our life among men,

Ever wishing our life was far distant,

Or could be lived over again.

The death-colored chambers of madness,

Where all rights are evermore gone;

Oh, is there no chance for freedom,

Will we never again see the dawn?

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.

So, hear the cries from the “big-house,”

From the souls who go down in the strife,

Where souls are evermore striving

And thrown by the wayside of life.

Oh, list to the cry from the inmates;

Assist in this hour that is blue,

For the ones who are good and the ones who are bad

Are as good or as bad as you.

* * *

I was born in the spring, I died in the fall,

But I won’t tell St. Peter, I lived in St. Paul.

* * *

Dusty Holden’s Filosophy

This life is but a game of cards,

Which every one must learn.

Each shuffles, deals and cuts the deck

And then a trump does turn;

Some show up a high card,

While others make it low,

And many turn no cards at all—

In fact, they cannot show.

When hearts are up, we play for love

And pleasure rules the hour,

Each day goes pleasantly along,

In sunshine’s rosy bower.

When diamonds chance to crown the pack,

That’s when men stake their gold,

And thousands then are lost and won,

By gamblers, young and old.

When clubs are trump, look out for war,

On ocean and on land,

For bloody deeds are often done,

When clubs are held in hand.

At last up turns the darkened spade,

Held by the toiling slave,

And a spade will turn up trump at last,

And dig each player’s grave.

* * *

Department Store Gossip

“Lizzie went out with that floorwalker clown,

She said he was filled full of booze

And made her get out and walk back to town,

But there wasn’t no mud on her shoes.

“Far be it from me to run a girl down,

Mistakes I will always excuse,

But when one declares she walked back to town

I look for the mud on her shoes.”

* * *

“Fifi” Stillman’s Lullaby

Rock-a-bye baby, little Jay Leeds,

Daddy has women more than he needs;

Through a divorce I’ll get lots of cash,

Because your dear daddy was a little too rash.

* * *

The Poppy’s Answer

Publication in the May issue of the Whiz Bang of “In Flanders Fields” has brought many requests for “The Poppy’s Answer,” and thus, by special permission of the author, we offer it herein.

By D. H. Winget

In Flanders fields we poppies grow,

That all the passing world may know

We herald peace—surcease of pain,

For those who fought now live again,

Not in cold stone or mortal arts,

But in the depth of loving hearts,

We bloom afresh above our dead,

Our blossoms deck our hero’s bed

In Flanders fields.

Our Father called us into bloom,

To deck and shield each soldier’s tomb

To bask and glint in glory’s stream,

And fashion every soldier’s dream,

As ’neath our roots he sweetly sleeps,

Each poppy true her vigil keeps,

And gently to the breeze she yields

Her soothing breath

In Flanders fields.

* * *

The Girl In the Garden

She lifts her skirts from danger,

With her left hand, while her right

Grasps the nozzle, and the stranger

Gets a very shocking sight.

The neighbors gaze with rapture,

And their interest daily grows,

For they like to see her sprinkle,

And they like to watch the hose.

* * *

His eyelids closed, his breath came fast,

His eager lips met hers;

They parted ere the week had passed—

She had a set of furs.

* * *

Past, Present and Future

You’ve heard the tale of Daphne of a hundred years ago?

You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a thing you ought to know.

Though pretty smart at most things (for her age was seventeen)

She didn’t know the proper way to wear a crinoline.

For instance, when the winter winds came tearing through the town

She made the most ridiculous attempts to hold it down;

And thus it was that often as she tacked across the street

The people got a view of her that wasn’t only feet.

You’ve heard, of course, the story of the Daphne of today?

You haven’t? Well, I’ll tell you. It’s funny in a way.

In spite of all the teachings of the Grundies and the Prims,

She hasn’t yet discovered how to cover up her limbs.

For instance, though the crinoline perplexes her no more,

She’s in the same predicament, precisely, as before.

And when she’s sprinting for a bus, with little time to lose,

The people get a view of her that isn’t only shoes.

I hate, of course, to moralize, to lecture or to prate,

But troubles have their ending if the troubled only wait;

And probably, if Daphne’s good, and patient as a saint,

The skirt will pass to savages, and she will have their paint;

And that will keep its proper place, whate’er her attitude,

And satisfy the conscience of the most exacting prude—

Unless a rainstorm comes along that nothing does by halves,

And then we’ll get a view of her that won’t be only calves!

—A. B. M.

* * *

The Pleasure Pier

(Ocean Park, California)

One night as I strolled on the sand,

The hour of twelve was near,

By chance my wandering footsteps led

Me underneath the pier.

Ye Gods! the people I saw that night,

As I strolled along my way;

Behind each piling they ’rose like ghosts

And silently faded away.

I saw there men, and women, too;

And friends I held most dear,

And I turned and fled (for I wasn’t alone),

As I strolled beneath the pier.

* * *

Jeu D’Amour

By Enid R. Clay

March winds were blowing when we met—

(And so the game was started)

You blew a breath of love to me

That left me broken-hearted.

June roses scented all the air—

(The game seemed so worth winning).

Their glory mingled with your kiss,

And never thought it sinning.

And still for some the March winds blow,

And roses perish never;

For all my play—and some must lose—

Forever and forever.

* * *

Christmas at the Workhouse

It was Christmas at the workhouse,

And the convicts gathered there.

They were sitting at the table,

Partaking of their fare,

When the warden quietly entered,

And he shouted through the cells,

“Merry Christmas, good old convicts,”

And the convicts answered “Bells.”

Now this made the warden angry,

And he swore by all the Gods,

“You shall have no Christmas pudding.

You’re a dang big bunch of slobs.”

Then spoke the oldest convict,

With a voice that was not pure,

“Just take that Christmas pudding,

And shove it in the sewer.”

—By Dan Moriarty.

* * *

Underneath the Barroom Floor

’Twas a balmy summer evening

And a goodly crowd was there

But it wasn’t in the barroom

For the barrooms now are bare.

* * *

The Maiden’s Lament

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow

Parley vou.

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow

Parley vou.

That Perkins’ boy is awfully slow

He believes me when I tell him “no.”

Hinkey dinkey parley vou.

* * *

A Lady’s Query

By W. D. Nesbit

Is it ladylike to giggle?

Is it ladylike to wink?

Is it ladylike to ride a horse a-straddle?

Is it ladylike to wiggle?

Is it ladylike to drink?

Is it ladylike upon the beach to paddle?

Is it ladylike to mutter?

Is it ladylike to stare?

Is it ladylike to do those fancy dances?

Is it ladylike to sputter?

Is it ladylike to swear?

Is it ladylike to use expressive glances?

Is it ladylike to gurgle?

Is it ladylike to joke?

Is it ladylike to boast of being wealthy?

Is it ladylike to burgle?

Is it ladylike to smoke?

Is it ladylike to know that you are healthy?

Is it ladylike to shiver?

Is it ladylike to weep?

Is it ladylike to walk through forests shady?

Is it ladylike to quiver?

Is it ladylike to peep?

Is it ladylike to be a little lady?

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