  Every once in a while we get regular he-man verse prompted by dreams in some feather bed, but from the pen of Budd L. McKillips, Whiz Bang readers again are to be treated with a poem inspired by real life. In the Winter Annual of the Whiz Bang we reproduced Mr. McKillips’ poem “After the Raid,” inspired while Mr. McKillips, as a newspaper reporter, “covered” story of the raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis. Recently pretty Zelda Crosby, picture scenario writer, of New York, committed suicide in a hotel by drinking poison, as a result of a prominent film magnate spurning her after teaching her the ways of love and folly. This magnate, like many other alleged reformers, has been a leading figure in the movement for purity in pictures. The title of Mr. McKillips poem, written exclusively for the Whiz Bang, is “The Girl From Over ‘There’.” In addition to that poem we are publishing a crackerjack rival to the “Gila Monster Route,” with which Winter Annual readers have fallen in love, called “The Blanket Stiff.” * * * The Spirit of MortalOh, Why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, like a fast flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, And be scattered around and together be laid, And the old and the young and the low and the high, Shall molder to dust and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant’s affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each all are away to their dwellings of rest. The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne, The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn, The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who limbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. So the multitude goes like the flower or the weed, That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told. For we are the same our fathers have been: We see the same sights our fathers have seen— We drink the same stream and view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink; To the life we are clinging they also would cling, But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing. They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumber shall come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died!—ay; they died, we things that are now, That walk on the turf that lies over their brow, And make in their dwellings a transient abode; Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, We mingle together in sunshine and rain; And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge upon surge. ’Tis the wink of an eye, ’tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon, the bier and the shroud; Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? * * * Just ThinkingBy Hudson Hawley. (In the Stars and Stripes.) Standin’ up here on the fire-step Lookin’ ahead in the mist, With a tin hat over your ivory And a rifle clutched in your fist; Waitin’ and watchin’ and wond’rin’ If the Huns comin’ over tonight— Say, aren’t the things you think of, Enough to give you a fright? Things you ain’t even thought of For a couple o’ months or more; Things that ’ull set you laughin’; Things that ’ull make you sore; Things that you saw in the movies, Things that you saw on the street, Things that you’re really proud of, Things that are—not so sweet. Debts that are past collection, Stories you hear and forget, Ball games and birthday parties, Hours of drill in the wet; Headlines, recruitin’ posters, Sunsets way out at sea, Evenings of pay days—golly— It’s a queer thing, this memory! Faces of pals in the home burg, Voices of women folk, Verses you learned in school days, Pop up in the mist and smoke, As you stand there grippin’ that rifle, A standin’ and chilled to the bone, Wonderin’ and wonderin’ and wonderin,’ Just thinkin’ there—all alone! When will the war be over? When will the gang break through? What will the U. S. look like? What will there be to do? Where will the Boshes be then? Who will have married Nell? When’s that relief a-comin’ up? Gosh! But this thinkin’s hell! * * * Gee WhizBy Dorothy. Dream girl with your raven hair Eyes of brown and dimples too Can’t you find one day to spare That I may elope with you? Too many ginks are on your hooks You trifle right and left They toddle round with hungry looks Poor nuts they’re all bereft. Dream girl get your cigarettes And I’ll produce the booze, Put the brake on vain regrets And let us burn the fuse. Hire a hall or buy a yacht It’s all the same, Oh! gee But give me everything you’ve got It’s coming straight to ME. Dream girl with your raven hair Come cuddle up and tease Love me, bite me like a bear, Then kiss me—naughty—please. Make it today and don’t postpone Don’t make your sweetie pout, Dear heart I’m sitting all alone For the darned old booze gave out. * * * The Land of Gee and HawBy Ted Lattourette Hansford. I have a home I’m not ashamed of, In the land of Gee and Haw, Where Jeff Davis found a pile of rocks And called it Arkansaw. And I am going back to Flatrock, Where the cornfed people stay, And they make a little moonshine Just to pass the time away. I can see old Hank and Silas, A firing up the drum To run a drink that’s guaranteed To put sorrow on the bum. It glistens like the dewdrops, At the dawn of early morn, And you can smell the boys’ feet That plowed the yaller corn. It fills your heart with gratitude, And keeps you feeling fine, Like everybody was owin’ you And you didn’t need a dime. ’Tis the land where satisfaction, Peace, love and feuds reside, And the farms they sit up edgeways; You can farm on either side. Where they dance from dark till daylight, Calling swing, and balance all; With the fiddler full o’ pine top, Playing Turkey in The Straw. When you read these lines, yours truly Will be there for evermore, Wading through the moonshine, Singing Sailor on The Shore. And my address, should you want me, Will be Flatrock, Arkansaw; Care o’ Wildcat Hiram Johnson, In the Land of Gee and Haw. * * * Ten Years on the IslandsTen years on the Islands, And you’re mad; Not a spark of decency— Oh! it’s sad; Can’t recall one sober day, That you’ve had; You’ve let the tropics get you, And you’re bad. Ten years on the Islands, And you fell, Hardly conscious of surrender, To the spell; You’re eaten up with leprosy, Traders tell, You’re a comber of the beaches— Gone to hell. Ten years on the Islands, It’s too long, To preserve one’s sense of right, And of wrong, The tropic’s spell is gentle, But it’s strong, It feeds the soul on lotus, Till it’s gone. * * * Spoiled GirlWhen you are awfully cross to me I pout, and pout, and pout, My lip goes down, my eyes get big And then my tears come out. When you are awfully good to me I smile, and smile, and smile, So if you like sun more than rain Try being good awhile. * * * Great Gawsch!“Hang it all, daughter,” exploded old Jenkins. “You can’t marry young Dobbins, I won’t have it. Why he only makes eighteen dollars a week.” “I know father,” replied the sweet young thing, “but a week passes so quickly when you are fond of each other.” * * * Hot Dog!It doesn’t extinguish the conflagration in a man’s burning brain when a pretty girl turns her hose on him. * * * How to Get TipsSmith Dalrymple tells this one: When I was in Bartlesville I went into a lady barber shop to get shaved. That was the first female joint I ever saw. When I went in the barber was sitting on a fellow’s lap. She jumped up and said, “You’re next.” I said, “I know it and I know who I am next to.” She said, “Do you want a close shave?” I said, “No, I just had one, my wife passed the window and didn’t look in.” I gave her a quarter, she handed me back ten cents and before I thought where I was I said, “Put it in the piano.” * * * Those Flivvers AgainWe heard a couple talking in the rear of a machine ahead of us. The man sighed, “Oh, dearest, you never have acted this way before. Always you have been cold towards me and now you’re—” So I put on my brakes and pulled my radiator away from the back of their machine. * * * Someone’s Inhaling Ether(From the Chicago Tribune) “She had those wide blue eyes whose expression can be misleading in their infantile pathos; hair fine and shining like gossamer gold; a complexion firm and white, with the barest breath of rose leaf pink on the cheek bones, and the whole of her was small, neat, rounded.” * * * Just Like the ArmyThe prosy old parson was coming and his hostess carefully drilled her daughter to answer the string of questions he always asked every little girl: (1) “What is your name?” (2) “How old are you?” (3) “Are you a good little girl?” (4) “Do you know where bad little girls go?” But the little girl was overtrained and when the reverend visitor began by asking her her name, she spilled all the answers at once in a single breath. “Dorothy, sir; six years old, sir; yes, sir; go to hell, sir.” * * * Blank VerseDear Captain Billy, I am full of regrets, Because the other night I set out to find the gold At the end of the rainbow. And all that I saw was “The Gold Diggers.” Ain’t that always the way In Boston? * * * Sneeze Hearty“I rise to propose a little toast,” announced the president of the Hay Fever Club. “What is it?” “Here’s looking at—choo!” |
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