Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 22, July, 1921 / America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

Smokehouse Poetry

Various

Whiz Bang has a double-winner for Smokehouse fans next issue! “The Lure of the Tropics” and “The Far East.”

“O’er chicle camps and logwood swamps

I hunted him many a moon,

Then found my man in a long pit pan

At the edge of a blue lagoon.

“The chase was o’er at the farther shore;

It ended a two-year quest,

And I left him there with an empty stare

And a knife stuck in his chest.”

That’s the swing of the most noted poem of the tropics, “The Far East,” an excerpt from which follows, is familiar to Philippine war veterans:

“By the mud hole down in Subic

Looking lazy at the bay,

There’s a goo-goo dame awaiting,

And I think I hear her say:

‘Come you back you malo soldier

Come you back from o’er the sea,

Come you back and pay your jaw-bone,

Por-a-que! You jaw-bone me?’”

* * *

The Hoboes’ Convention

By George Liebst

You have heard of big conventions,

And there’s some you can’t forget,

But get this straight, there’s none so great

As when the hoboes met.

To Portland, Oregon, last year

They came from near and far;

On “tops” and “blind” where cinders whined,

They rode on every car.

Three hundred came from New York state,

Some came from Eagle Pass;

That afternoon, the third of June,

They gathered there en masse.

From Lone Star state came “Texas Slim”

And “Jack the Katydid”;

With “Lonesome Lou” from Kal’mazoo

Came “San Diego Kid.”

And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red”

Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,”

“Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang,

“Big Mac” from Mackinack.

I saw some boys I’d never met;

A bo called “New York Spike,”

“Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek,

And “Mississippi Ike.”

Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke,

Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”;

And “Half-breed Joe” from Mexico

Shot craps with “Eastport Ed.”

“St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul”

Fixed up a jungle stew,

While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim”

Croaked gumps for our menu.

The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a song

Along with “Desp’rate Sam”;

And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ Park

Clog-danced with “Alabam.”

We gathered ’round the jungle fire,

The night was passing fast;

We’d all done time for every crime,

And talk was of the past.

All night we flopped around the fire

Until the morning sun;

Then from the town the cops came down—

We beat it on the run.

We scattered to the railroad yards,

And left the “bulls” behind;

Some hit the freights for other states,

And many rode the “blind.”

Well, here I am in Denver town,

A hungry, tired-out bo;

The flier’s due, when she pulls through,

I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.

That’s her—she’s whistling for the block—

I’ll make her on the fly;

It’s number nine—Santa Fe line,

I’m off again—Good Bye!

* * *

Mushy Stuff, Eh?

He blushed a fiery red,

Her heart went pittypat;

She gently hung her head,

And looked down, at the mat.

* * *

Mary Jane

Ah, here we have the second spasm of the rollicking thirst emporium ditty:

Oh, she promised to meet me

When the clock struck seventeen,

At the stockyards, just three miles out of town,

Where the pig eyes and pig ears and the

Tough old Texas steers

Sell for sirloin steak at

Eighteen cents a pound.

CHORUS:

Oh, she’s my honey, my baby,

She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy,

She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame.

Although her lower teeth are phoney

From eating Swift’s bologna,

She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

* * *

Casey’s Revenge

Did you ever hear that noted recitation, “Casey at the Bat?” Here’s a baseball soul with a more generous poetic disposition. He replies to the old classic, which, as you remember, ended with the mighty Casey striking out, and Glory-be, it sure gives us a thrill, and reminds us of our own Mudville nine. Heave ho to this “Curve”—

—By James Wilson.

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;

There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.

“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat,

And then to think he’d go and pull a bush league trick like that.”

All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless “shine,”

They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor on down the line.

And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh,

While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again,

And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.

And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown;

The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come

To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;

And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild,

He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.

“Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began;

But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan

Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun

Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.”

The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;

But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.

The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard

When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game,

A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;

But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night

When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at right,”

A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face—

When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;

His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate

He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;

There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.

They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.”

But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;

Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said.

Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee—

“Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot.

But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot?

A whack, a crack, and out through space the leather pellet flew—

A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

About the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight,

The ball sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.

Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, then thousand threw a fit;

But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun,

And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun;

And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;

But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.

* * *

Expurgated

By a Former Acting-assistant Buck Private, Budd L. McKillipps.

Last night I was at a party

And some fellow sang a song,

A song I’d heard,

But this poor bird

Had half the words all wrong.

He sang a soldier ballad,

But it lacked the army tang;

It sounded strange

To hear the change,

These were the songs he sang:

Mademoiselle from Armentieres;

Parley Vouz,

Mademoiselle from Armentieres;

Parley Vouz,

Mademoiselle from Armentieres,

She hasn’t been kissed in forty years,

Hinky Dinky Parley Vouz.

I’d tell you the way we sang it

Around the cafes in France,

(The words grow worse

With every verse),

I don’t dare take a chance.

Oh, I long to see the captain in the grave yard,

With the quartermaster sergeant by his side,

And the non-commissioned officers in the tool house

While the privates in the mess hall running wild;

The non-commissioned officers are a bunch of dirty sticks,

They take us to the drill field and they teach us dirty tricks.

Squads East, Squads West, Right Front Into Line—

The dirty bunch of loafers, they give us double time;

Then it’s home boys, home;

That’s where we ought to be,

Home, boys, home, to the land of liberty;

We’ll hoist Old Glory to the top of the pole

And we’ll all re-enlist—when the weather gets cold.

That wasn’t the way we sang it,

To comrades garbed in O.D.;

There’s some may tell

The real song, well—

You’ll not find out from me.

I want to go home, I want to go home,

The mademoiselles in Gay Paree;

They certainly all feel sorry for me;

I want to go home

I’m here with a busted knee.

Oh, hell, I wish I was well,

I want to go home.

I cried when I heard him sing that,

’Twas a song we sang in Brest;

When long days crept

And boys were kept

In stockades under arrest.

Oh, why do they change those ballads,

Till nothing’s left but the air?

They’re made for men

So sing them when

There’s no darned women there.

* * *

Tribute to the Painted Girl

By Grayce Moody.

There are girly girls and whirly girls,

And girls who are bashful and shy;

There are gay brunettes and dizzy blondes,

And the girl with the wicked eye.

There’s the haughty girl who sits on the world,

As the honey from life she sips,

But give me the girl the world calls bad,

The girl with the painted lips.

She’s there with a smile and a friendly word,

When the world is going wrong,

She will jolly you and cheer you up

And tell you life’s a song.

She will stick by you and play you square,

No odds if you’re down and out,

She’s a dandy pal and a true blue friend,

I’ll say she’s a regular scout.

Her life is not all sunshine and roses

This painted little maid,

But she hides her hurts behind a smile

And faces the world unafraid;

Little she minds what the world says

Or the “goody girls’” caustic quips,

She’s worth a thousand “prudish prunes”

My girl with the painted lips.

* * *

Monkey Shines

Two young men were riding on a street car which I chanced to squeeze onto with some 249 other adults.

“I took my first drink last night, Algernon,” said one of the pair.

“Did you, Clarence? Honestly, where did you get it?” queried the other.

“Down at a near beer parlor. It was real near beer, too, with one-half of one per cent alcohol and everything.”

“I’ve been drinking, too,” said the other; “I had two whole glasses of near beer the other night. I was going to a party, you know, and wanted to get plenty of pep.”

“Did you drink your near beer straight, or did you dilute it with water?” asked Clarence.

“I drank it straight. I wanted to get the full kick. Straight, you know, with a coupla chasers.”

“I certainly went crazy after I took that drink, though. I thought I was going to try to sing at first,” said Clarence.

“I hope none of my friends saw the way I acted after I took that near beer the other night,” Algernon put in. “I went batty right away. I started telling all sorts of funny jokes and laughing ridiculously. Went to see my girl immediately after, and she said she could tell I had been drinking after I told her. She promised not to tell it, though.”

The two young men got off the car about this time, and a grizzled old dog sitting in front of me bit the neck off a bottle of turpentine he carried and drank the contents of the bottle. “I heard that pair talking,” he said.

* * *

Liberty’s Love Lights

A young colored couple were sitting at the foot of the Statue of Liberty. Henry was holding Mandy’s hand.

“Henry,” said Mandy, “Does you-all know why dey has such small lights on de Statue o’ Liberty?”

“Ah dunno,” replied the Ethiopian swain, “unless it’s because de less light, de mo’ liberty.”

* * *

Ashes to ashes,

And fire to fire;

He’s a weak old man,

She’s a foxy vampire.

* * *

Rasping Rastus’ Roost

“What am de matter, Rastus? Ketch cold?”

“Yeah, purty bad, too.”

“How come?”

“Ya know, I put mah bed out in de yard, and doggone if Ah didn’t go to bed las’ night wiff de gate open.”

* * *

The head that is loaded with wisdom doesn’t leak at the mouth.

* * *

Debt is a trap which a man sets and baits for him self and then deliberately falls into.

Clyx.com