Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 3, No. 30, February, 1922 / America's Magazine of Wit, Humor and Filosophy

Smokehouse Poetry

The greatest poem of the squared circle ever brought to light is in store for March Whiz Bang readers, “The Kid’s Last Fight.” That noted recitation of years ago has been obtained by the Whiz Bang, reset to verse, and will hold the boards in the March issue.

The way he staggered made me sick,

I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”

The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”

They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take.

* * *

“Chi Slim” Twangs ’is Bloomin’ Lyre

By J. Eugene Chrisman.

Author of “Poppies,” written exclusively for Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang.

By the lake-front near Chicago with her elbows on her knee

There’s a widder-woman waiting and I know she waits for me;

When the wind is from the stock-yards every odor seems to say

“Come you back you lost star-boarder, come you back you skunk and pay!”

Her apron it was greasy and her hair it hung in strings,

And her name was Sarah Lukens but it had been lots o’ things!

When I saw her first a’diggin’ up the makin’s for a stew

And she wasn’t wastin’ nothing that a dog could chaw in two.

Blinkin’ rough for me to lead, tooth-less, sallow and knock-knee’d

Wasn’t carin’ much for class tho—what I needed was a feed.

When the bunch had grabbed their hand-out and we had ’em on the go,

Then she’d start me for “Dutch” Ryan’s with a two-bit piece to throw.

With her head upon my shoulder at the second growler full,

She was lonesome bo, that widder with the rough-stuff that she’d pull!

How I used to feed her full of the “mush-talk” and the bull

For the snow had begun blowin’ and I didn’t like to pull!

But that’s all put behind me, long ago and far away

Since I hit out for St. Looey one night on the C. & A.

But they’re tellin’ in the jungles that the winter’s one best bet

For a young and handsome hobo is to be a widder’s pet.

Oh them boardin’ kitchen smells as she fed me jams and jells

And the skuts of “suds” from Ryans—I won’t ever need naught else!

Ship me somewhere south of “Chi” though where the bloomin’ mob ain’t cursed

With a Volstead disposition and a man can quench his thirst

For the winter snows are falling and its there that I would be

Either Juarez or Havana with a widder on my knee!

* * *

Charley Wong

Copyrighted. By permission of the Author, Green Room Club, New York.

By H. A. D’Arcy.

The west was pretty wild when Bill Durant and I went out,

’Twer in ’59 or ’60, somewhar that about,

Bill took his pretty wife along (they’d been wed about a year),

A buxom kind of girl she war, that never thought o’ fear.

And I don’t know that she needed to, for the miners one and all,

Would have fought for her like devils if she’d ever made the call;

And afore we’d fairly built a hut to keep her from the damp

A little baby gal was born—the first one in the camp.

And didn’t the boys keep Christmas? Well, I’m shoutin’ now they did;

Why, they all got roarin’ full that night just in honor o’ the kid;

And by the time that baby were a little tot o’ three years old,

She had a big tomato can just filled with virgin gold.

I built a cabin ’bout a quarter mile away from Bill’s,

So we both had kinder cozy homes protected by the hills;

And Charley Wong, the Chinaman, had opened handy by

The laundry o’ the canyon, and he washed for Bill and I.

Now, Chinamen ain’t liked too well, and one day in a row

Charley got pretty badly used, I disremember now

Just what the trouble war about, but Bill war in the fray,

And he helped to beat the Chinaman in a rather brutal way.

Durant weren’t bad at heart, ye know, but like too many others,

He didn’t like Mongolians, nor own ’um men and brothers;

And I often heard him say that if the Chinamen wer near

He’d cut the leper’s pigtail off and stick it through his ear.

One evening Lizzie (Durant’s wife) and little Tot, the child,

Were comin’ homeward down the hills when all at once a wild

And fearful howl were heard behind—two wolves were on their track,

Liz says she stopped and grabbed the child and threw it on her back.

Then shrieking aloud for help, she ran, as swift as any hind

Toward the Chinese laundry hut—the wolves came fast behind;

Nearer and nearer on they came; then reaching Charley’s door,

The mother, with her precious load, fell prone upon the floor.

Bill and I were talkin’ when we heard the fearful cries,

And rushing to the laundry the sight that met our eyes

Was far too horrible to tell, for thar was Charley Wong

Dead, and a blood-stained knife in hand full fifteen inches long.

He’d fought a fearful battle; one brute wer by his side

With its entrails all hanging out, and blood stains on its hide;

But t’ other had got its work in afore Bill and I got there,

And wer gnawing Charley’s throat and face till the bones were laying bare.

Wall, we made quick work o’ Mr. Wolf, we filled ’um full o’ lead,

Then gathered child and mother up and took ’em home to bed,

Next day when Lizzie told her tale, Bill’s eyes were full o’ tears,

He didn’t brag much sentiment, and hadn’t wept for years.

Poor “Washee!” when we packed him up the camp boys stood around

Each one with hat in hand and tearful eyes cast on the ground;

We shipped the corpse to ’Frisco, with a bag o’ the yellow dust

To pay the freight to Pekin—to “Rest In Peace,” I trust.

But ever after that, if any man had got the face

To say Chinese wer yallow dogs, he’d better quit the place;

For thar ain’t a name more holy held in Canyon Idlewild

Than Charley Wong, the Chinaman, that saved Bill’s wife and child.

* * *

A horse fly eats whip crackers.

* * *

The Song of Camille

Sitting alone by my window,

Watching the moonlit street,

Bending my head to listen,

To the well-known sound of your feet

I have been wondering darling

How I can bear the pain,

When I watch with sighs and tear-wet eyes,

And wait for your coming in vain.

For I know that the day approaches,

When your heart will tire of me,

When by door and gate I must watch and wait,

For a form I shall not see.

For the love that is now my heaven

The kisses that make my life,

You will bestow on another,

And that other will be your wife.

You will grow weary of sinning,

Though you do not call it so

You will long for a love that is purer

Than the love that we two know,

God knows I love you dearly

With a passion strong as true,

But you will grow tired and leave me

Though I gave up all for you.

I was pure as the morning

When I first looked on your face,

I knew I could never reach you

In your high exalted place,

But I looked and loved and worshipped

As a flower might worship a star

And your eyes shown down upon me

And you seemed so far, so far.

And then? Well then you loved me

Loved me with all your heart,

But we could not stand at the altar

We were so far apart.

If a star should wed with a flower,

The star must drop from the sky

Or the flower in trying to reach it

Would droop on its stem and die.

But you said that you loved me darling,

And swore by the heavens above

That the Lord and all of his Angels

Would sanction and bless our love,

And I? I was weak, not wicked,

My love was as pure as true,

And sin itself seemed a virtue,

If only shared by you.

We have been happy together,

Though under the cloud of sin

But I know that the day approaches

When my chastening must begin,

You seem to think kindly of me

But you seem downhearted and blue,

But you will not always be

And I think I had better leave you.

I know my beauty is fading,

Sin furrows the fairest brow,

And I know your heart will weary,

Of the face you smile on now.

You will take a bride on your bosom,

After you turn from me,

You will sit with your wife in the moon-light

And hold your babe on your knee.

Oh! God I could not bear it,

I would my brain I know,

And while you love me dearly,

I think I had better go.

It is sweeter to feel my darling

And know as I fall asleep

That some would mourn me and miss me

That someone was left to weep.

Though to die as I should in the future,

To drop in the streets some day,

Unknown, unwept and forgotten,

After you passed me away.

Perhaps the blood of the Savior,

Can wash my garments clean,

Perchance I may drift on the water,

That flows in the pastures green.

Perchance we may meet in heaven,

And walk in the street above,

With nothing to grieve us or part us,

Since our sinning was all through love.

God says, love one another,

And down to the depths of Hell,

Well he sent the soul of a woman,

Because she loved—and fell.

And so in the moon-light he found her,

Or found her beautiful clay,

Lifeless and pallid as marble,

For the spirit had flown away.

The farewell words she had written,

She held to her cold white breast,

And the buried blade of a dagger,

Told how she had gone to rest.

* * *

To a Mountain Rat

By Frank B. Lindeman.

Yes I reckon God made ye

He’s blamed for rattlesnakes,

And porcupines and woodchucks,

And if they ain’t mistakes

Ye’re a crowin’ example

Of carelessness divine,

To nigh the danger line.

Yer winkless eye in innocence

Hides cunnin’ cussedness,

And yer skin is full to bustin’

With a longin’ to possess

All things that don’t belong to you,

But when all’s said and done

There’s things on earth ye’ve failed to steal,

And reputation’s one.

* * *

The real John Barleycorn of older days is gone, but not forgotten.

Those of us who knew him best, and loved him most,

Stuck with him ’til the last drop.

* * *

Pretty (looking over the new theatre down-town)—What do you think of the excavation?

Witty—Oh, it’s pretty good as a whole.

* * *

The Bum and the Farmer’s Son

One fine day, in the month of May, a dirty old bum came hiking; He sat down by a pig pen, which was very much to his liking. On the very same day, in the month of May, a farmer’s son came piping; Said the bum to the son, “If you’ll only come, I will show you things to your liking. I will show you the bees, and the cigarette trees, and the gum drop heights, where they give away kites, and the big rock candy mountains; And the lemonade springs, where the blue bird sings, and marbles made of crystal; you can whiff the breeze from the mince pie trees, where the wind blows fine and frisky; and you can join the band of Rocky Mountain Sam, and get yourself a sword and a pistol.” The farmer’s son then went along, listening to the bum’s merry song; and for six months they did travel. Said the bum to the son, “When I get done, you’re going to be a little devil.” The punk looked up with his big blue eyes, and then he said to Sandy, “Now we’ve been a hiking all day long, now gosh darn where’s your candy? You put a brace on my leg, and showed me how to beg, and you told me you were my jocker; and you told me lies, when you promised me pies, and you called me an apple knocker; I’m a goin’ back home, no more to roam, I’m packing my junkerino; You can bet your lid, that this Hoosier kid, won’t be any bum’s punkerino.”

* * *

Misplaced Eyebrow—“There is a hair in my soup.”

Diplomatic Waiter—“Probably out of your mustache.”

“I never thought of that.”

* * *

Clap, Clap, Clap, Hurray!

“How do you like the Volstead Act?”

“I never did care for vaudeville.”

* * *

Oh, the Merry Bells of Windsor

Johnny was late at school and explained that a wedding at his house was the cause of the delay.

“That’s nice,” replied teacher, “who gave the bride away?”

“Well,” Johnny answered, “I could have, but I kept my mouth shut.”

* * *

The Barb Wire Hairnet

Her has gone, her has went,

Her has left I all alone,

Can her never come to me,

Must me always go to she?

It can never was.

* * *

Some Parties, Ahoy!

“I suppose your wife was tickled to death at your raise in salary?”

“She will be.”

“Haven’t you told her yet?”

“No, I thought I would enjoy myself for a couple of weeks first.”

* * *

Isaac Goldstein came home one evening, unexpectedly, and found a man sitting on his wife’s lap.

Next day he told his business partner about it. His partner asked Mr. Goldstein what he had said to the man.

Goldstein replied, “I didn’t even speak to him. He was a stranger.”

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