  When the world was in babyhood, woman was the slave for man’s satisfaction. Today man is the slave to serve woman. William Ernest Henley’s poem, “Or Ever the Knightly Years Were Gone,” inspired the book from which the picture drama, “Male and Female,” was written. Going back to biblical days, the throwing of the beautiful woman to the lions for her refusal to satisfy the lust of the King of Babylon, is compared with woman’s present punishment upon man for Babylon’s offense. This poem will be given a leading place in Smokehouse Poetry in the May issue, and it goes something like this: 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. The Whiz Bang also will publish for the first time in any national magazine “Toledo Slim,” a parallel to “The Blue Velvet Band,” and it winds up with this: 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.
* * * Lasca
A Tale of the Stampede By PAUL DESPREZ It’s all very well to write reviews, And carry umbrellas and keep dry shoes, And say what everyone’s saying here, And wear what everyone else must wear, But tonight I’m sick of the whole affair. For I want free life and I want fresh air, And I long for the canter after the cattle, For the crack of the whip, like shots in battle, For the meelee of hoofs and horns, and heads That wars and wrangles and scatters and spreads, For the green beneath and the blue above And dash, and danger, and life and love, and Lasca. Lasca used to ride on a mouse-grey mustang Close to my side, With blue serape and bright belled spur, I laughed with joy when I looked at her; Little knew she of books or creeds, An Ave Marie sufficed her needs, Little cared she, save to be by my side, To ride with me and ever to ride From San Sabas shore to Lavatoes tide. The air was heavy and the night was hot, I sat by her side and forgot, forgot, Forgot that the air was close, oppressed, That a Texas northern comes sudden and soon In the dead of night or the blaze of noon, And once let a herd in its rest take fright, There’s nothing on earth can stop its flight, And woe to the rider and woe to the steed That falls in front of a mad stampede. Was that thunder? I sprang to the saddle, she clung behind And away on a hot race down the wind, And never was steed so little spared And never was foxhunt half so hard, For we rode for our lives, In Texas, down by the Rio Grande. The mustang flew, but we urged him on. You have one chance left And you have but one halt, Jump to earth and shoot your horse, Crouch under his carcass and take your chance, And if those steers in their maddening course Don’t batter you both to pieces at once You may thank your stars, if not good-bye, With a quickened kiss and a long-drawn sigh To the opened air and the open sky Of Texas, down by the Rio Grande. The cattle were gaining and just as I felt For my good six-shooter behind in my belt, Down came the mustang, and down we clinging together. What is the rest? A body has spread itself on my breast, Two lips so close to my lips were pressed. And then came thunder into my ears And over us surged “a sea of steers,” Blows that beat blood into my eyes, Two arms are shielding my dizzy head, And when I could rise, Lasca was dead. I gouged out a grave a few feet deep, And there in earth’s arms I laid her to sleep. And there she is lying and no one knows, And the summer shines and the winter snows. For many a year the flowers have spread A pall of petals over her head. And the buzzard sails on and comes and is gone. Stately and still like a ship at sea. And I wonder why I do not care For the things that are like the things that were Does half the heart lie buried there In Texas, down by the Rio Grande? * * * It’s All in the Game Weddings and rice, old maids and advice, And the world rocks on just the same. You may win the pot, and again you may not, But remember, it’s all in the game.
* * * In Flanders Fields The author of this poem, John McCrae, B.A., M.D., M.R.C.P., was born in Guelph, Canada, son of Colonel and Mrs. David McCrae, who still survive him, and for several years he was professor of pathology at the University of Vermont. In 1899 and 1900 he served with the artillery in South Africa and rose to the rank of commanding officer of his battery. Lieutenant-Colonel McCrae died in France from pneumonia January 28, 1918, in his forty-sixth year. His other masterpiece, The Anxious Dead, will be published in the May issue of the Whiz Bang, together with Poppies, J. Eugene Chrisman’s poem of Flanders, and America’s Answer to In Flanders Fields, the work of R. W. Lillard. By LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow, Between the crosses, row on row; That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly; Scarce heard, amidst the guns below. We are the Dead; short days we Lived, Felt Dawn, saw Sunset glow; Loved and were loved, and now we lie. In Flanders Fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe, To You, from falling hands we throw The Torch; be yours to hold it high; If Ye break faith, with those who die, We shall not sleep—though poppies grow In Flanders Fields. * * * Fading Blossoms Here’s to the rose of brilliant hue, Pluck it and call it your own. The rose will fade, And so will the maid If she’s left too long alone.
* * * Many requests from Whiz Bang readers for the publication of “Life’s a Funny Proposition After All,” the famous recitation by George M. Cohan, are answered herein. The Whiz Bang has obtained the original recitation and permission to publish it from the author. “Life’s a Funny Proposition” By GEORGE M. COHAN Did you ever sit and ponder Sit and wonder Sit and think Why we’re here and what this life is all about? It’s a problem that has driven many brainy men to drink, It’s the weirdest thing they’ve tried to figure out, About a thousand theories all the scientists can show But never yet have proved a reason why With all we’ve thought and all we’re taught Why, all we seem to know is we’re born And live a little while And then we die. Life’s a very funny proposition after all. Three meals a day A whole lot to say, When you haven’t got the coin You’re always in the way. Everybody’s fighting as we wend our way along, Every fellow claims the other fellow’s in the wrong. Hurried and worried until we’re buried And there’s no curtain call, Life’s a funny proposition, after all. When all things are coming easy and when luck is with a man, Why, then life to him is sunshine everywhere; Then the Fates blow rather breezy and they quite upset a plan, Then he’ll cry that life’s a burden hard to bear. Though today may be a day of smiles, Tomorrow’s still in doubt And what brings me joy may bring you care and woe. We’re born to die But we don’t know why Or what it’s all about, And the more we try to learn the less we know And no one’s ever solved the problem properly as yet. Young for a day, then old and gray, Like the rose that buds and blooms And fades—and falls away. Losing health to gain our wealth As through this dream we tour, Everything’s a guess and nothing’s absolutely sure. Battles exciting and fates we’re fighting Until the curtains fall, Life’s a funny proposition, after all. * * * The Hell-bound Train Tom drank until he could drink no more, Then went to sleep on the barroom floor; Where he slumbered with a troubled brain, To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train. Wilder and wilder the country grew, Faster and faster the engine flew, Louder and louder the thunder crashed, Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed. And out in the distance there rose a yell, “Ah, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell.” Then, oh how the passengers shrieked in pain And begged of the devil to stop the train. “You have bullied the weak, you have robbed the poor, The starving brother you turned from your door, You have laid up gold where canker rusts, And given free use of your fleshly lusts. “So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire, Where lost souls wail in the flaming mire.” Then Tom awoke with an agonized cry, His clothes soaked in sweat and hair standing high. And he prayed as he never prayed before, To be saved from drink and the devil’s power, And his vow and prayers were not in vain, For he never more rode on the hell-bound train. * * * Love, like a good drink, is a wonderful bracer. Divorce, like ginger ale, is a marvelous chaser.
* * * After the Raid A raid on the National Dutch Room cabaret in Minneapolis recently, in which two hundred fur-clad women and velvet-pocketed escorts were piled into patrol wagons amid a crashing of hip-pocket glassware, inspired Mr. McKillips to write this poetic story. By BUDD L. McKILLIPS Listen, dearie, stop your cryin’ ’Cause they’ve locked you in a cell; Don’t make noises like you’re dyin’; Oh, I know it’s simply hell. Cryin’, dear, won’t move the jailer, Won’t make him unlock the door; Use some rouge, you’re lookin’ paler; I’ve been in these raids before. Dozen times, I guess, they nailed me When they used to have a line; Ward boss always came and bailed me— Sometimes even paid my fine. Never mind that “Press” sob-sister, Dry your eyes and play the game— Ain’t no story—beat it, Mister; Good Lord, dear, don’t give your name. Don’t tell him a damn thing, honey; Hush now, dear, I know your tale; Just like me you needed money And stepped out to grab the kale. Lost your job, maybe slack season; Didn’t have the price to eat— Maybe not, but that’s the reason Most girls start to hit the street. Homeless, hungry, maybe freezin’, Soon you found the business paid, And there wasn’t no slack season Or no lay-offs in our trade. Conscience hurt when long-faced preachers Said as how you’d go to hell? Dear, the sons of those same teachers Came to buy the thing you sell. Just forget those sal’ried prayers When they tell you all those things, Tell them that the low-wage payers Don’t help grow no angel wings. Hush, now, dearie, come on, stop ’er, Cut the weeps and be a sport, Fix your hair, here comes a copper For to take us into court. See the judge, bet he’s been stayin’ Out all night—he’s got the jerks; We’re up now—what’s that he’s sayin’? Holy Gee, we got the works! * * * When Wifie’s Away Of all the insidious temptations invidious Contrived by the Devil to put a man down, There is no more elusive, seductive, abusive, Than the snare to the man when his wife’s out of town. He feels such delightfulness, Stay-out-all-nightfulness, Be sure to get tightfulness, ’Tis one without pain. A bachelor’s rakishness, What won’t you takishness, None can explain. His wife may be beautiful, tender and dutiful, ’Tis not that her absence would cause him delight, But the grand opportunity, The baleful immunity, Scatters his scruples as day scatters night. * * * There was a young man named Whiteside, He always slept on his rightside. When the “cooties” would crawl, You could hear the boob bawl, As he made a quick dash for the outside.
* * * The Blue Raven By C. P. CIPIUS Once upon a day so dreary, Congress pondered, weak and weary Over many a novel twist to laws that smacked of days of yore, While it nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door; Only this and nothing more. They were Blue Laws in the offing, with a ghastly, ghostly coughing, Spreading germs of discontent, dissatisfaction, gloom—all o’er, Causing men to shrink and shiver, many hearts to quake and quiver, Hoping something would deliver them from all these laws that bore Sorrow for them, evermore. All day Sunday, people sleeping, while the rest are gently weeping, And weeping as they never wept in all their lives before; Blue Laws wrecked the joy of living, made men stern and unforgiving, These laws passed, there was no living as in good old days of yore. Happiness? No, nevermore. Legislation’s undermining Freedom’s precepts—people pining For the Liberty they thought was theirs and had so long before; Straight-laced styles are fast becoming just the thing, you know, and bumming Is to be about like slumming, which all people should abhor, On the Sabbath, evermore. Crooks and Purists now are pairing, common folks are all despairing, Peace and joy and true contentment is a dream of ancient lore. They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of wining Or they’d have the judges fining them and looking for their gore: Wooden stocks, forevermore. Oh, the country’s draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorning All the houses in the land and crepe is seen on every door; Hear the people softly crying for their Freedom that is lying On its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore; Freedom’s fled, forevermore.
* * * Interpretative Dancing I saw a barefoot lady dip, And kneel and rise and poise and hover, As if to pin a pillow slip Upon the line stretched high above her. “This must be comedy,” I said, “Some esoteric highbrow joshing, This nymph who moves with classic tread Is hanging out the family washing.” The program told me I was wrong— The dance was labeled “Slumber Song.” I saw a maid with flying feet, Whose clothes were singularly airy, Go running through a field of wheat, With all the fleetness of a fairy. When I had gazed awhile askance At her abbreviated habit, I thought “The title of this dance Is ‘Girl in Nighty Chasing Rabbit.’” My guess was wrong—the program said: “A Russian Peasant’s Prayer for Bread.” Six damsels, very sparsely clad In white diaphanous confections, Came tearing in and ran like mad In many different directions. “Aha!” I cried, “I think I get The meaning of this scene before us; The title of it, I will bet, Is ‘Mouse Stampedes a Ziegfeld Chorus.’” But my conjecture went astray— The dance was “Woodland Birds in May.” * * * Sweet Simplicity of Ye Olden Days Miss “Pabst,” young and fair, With a “Blue Ribbon” in her hair, Sat under a “Busch” of “Anheuser,” When a “Bohemian,” by plan, Rushed some “Schlitz” in a can And she went home “Extra Pale” “Budweiser.”
* * * A Mother’s Prayer Last night I dreamed—I never can forget; I saw my son a prisoner at the bar. A stripling with the honest eyes of Youth, My baby strayed away from me so far. And I, his mother, had to stand And see him there so helpless and so dear; God knows I thought I had done right, But there stood leering Crime, and Shame, and Fear. Lord, help me to keep the home fires burning bright And give my child his need of help and love. Help me keep faith with him, as Thee with me, And guard this life entrusted from above. * * * The Underworld By CLEM YORE I want to be square to the underworld And even a dog that is down. I’d rather be a painter of smiles Than to carve a grewsome frown. So sit you down by my bungalow And we will enjoy the sky, For brothers and sisters, pals of woe, You’re just as immortal as I. * * * We’d Kiss Her, Too If blue were red and red were blue And you were I and I were you, And you loved me and I loved you And all alone were just we two, And you were sure nobody knew, Would you kiss me? If I were you and you were I And you so near I could hear you sigh, And then providing no one was nigh, And I wouldn’t regret it bye and bye. Wouldn’t I?
* * * The Hooch Cure Blues By M. V. Sumner. Bring me a dry Martini, waiter, and chase it with something that’s wet. I went to a pink tea yesterday and I haven’t got over it yet. I heard they’ve discovered the North Pole, waiter, Gee, I wish I had it here now, They couldn’t come any too cold for me to put on my aching brow. ’Twas a stormy night at sea, waiter, and the waves ran mountains high, Personally, I was souzed to the gills and today I am awfully dry. Yes, ’twas a frightful night on the sea, and many are missing, I think, But as near as I can remember, I never missed a drink. The one in blue got my spark, waiter, her side pal got my clock. Oh, I don’t want to know the time, waiter, just lead me down to the dock, Yes, lead me down to the dock, waiter, for a watery grave I pine, The place for a man that’s pickled is over his head in the brine. Just tell them I am at the “Murray” cure, waiter, that I died as a hero should; Up to my neck in the cold old suds, guaranteed drawn from the wood. Say, after I’ve sank in the deep, waiter, you’ll do me one favor, I hope, Tell ’em if I blow up bubbles that ’twasn’t from eating soap. * * * Who puts me in my little bed And spanks me till my face is red? My Mother. * * * All to Myself All to myself I think of you— Think of the things we used to do, Think of the things we used to say, Think of each happy yesterday; Sometimes I sigh and sometimes I smile, But I keep each olden, golden while All to myself.
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