From Slams of Life, with Malice for All And Charity Toward None Assembled in Rhyme by J. P. McEvoy, With black and white interruptions by Frank King, Chicago : P. F. Volland Company; 1919; pp. 101-124.
SLAMS OF LIFE
With Malice for All And Charity
Towards None
Assembled in Rhyme by
J. P. McEVOY
With black and white interruptions by
FRANK KING
[Part V.]
[100]
THERE AIN’T NO CURE FOR GOLF
(Written after reading a news story in which a doctor advocated golf as a cure for the inmates of insane asylums.)
Oh the freaky, foolish filbert can’t be bettered
By swatting pesky pellets ’round a lot;
There’s a cure for any coco,
That is flooey, cracked or loco,
But a cure for guys who golluf there is not,
There is not!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
Merry mediocos meticulously messing
Around the haunts of cuckoo conks have got
A squad of pills and bitters
That will cure the goofy critters
But a cure for guys who golluf they have not.
They have not!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
Oh, the onion that is batting in the minors,
The medulla oblongata gone to pot,
May be traced to indigestion
And be cured beyond a question
But a cure for guys who golluf there is not.
Not! Not!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
There’s nepenthe for the bean that waxes balmy,
For the coco that is cuckoo they have got.
Simple, bolus and elixier,
That are guaranteed to fix ’er,
But a golluf panacea there is not,
There is not!
Oh a golluf panacea there is not.
[101]
So I ask you like a brother, Mr. Doctor,
Don’t let the filberts mashie, putt or swat,
There are salves enough b’golly
For the skwerl who’s off his trolley,
But a cure for guys who golluf there is not,
Alas! no!
A cure for guys who golluf there is not.
[102]
THE MUSKRATEER
As ’round the loop I daily snoop
I see a curious sort of goop,
All toggled out and walking in
Some fair-haired muskrat’s favorite skin,
All wrapped in it from knee to ear
She walks, this curious Muskrateer.
And oh, it dessicates my mirth
To see how things are run on earth,
How little muskrats, dipped in dew,
Must give their hides to cover you,
The only hides they ever had —
Just thinking on it makes me sad.
And yet when gazing here and there
A Muskrateer that’s passing fair
Anoints my orb with winsome wile
And I am forced to muse the while
And say, “They killed you, muskrat, eh?
But gosh, you’re still in luck, I’ll say!”
[103]
THE LITTLE QUAKER MAID REMARKS: —
It’s wrong for men to watch me, still,
I like it.
They follow me against my will.
I like it.
They say such pretty things to me,
I know it’s wrong as wrong can be,
I should not listen, but you see
I like it.
Sometimes to hold my hand they try,
I like it.
I do not understand just why
I like it.
They say that I am pretty, too,
I know I should not think that’s true,
But what’s a little girl to do?
I like it.
They call me “Little Quaker Maid,”
I like it.
They softly say, “Art thou afraid?”
I like it.
They whisper sweetly in my ear
A lot of things I should not hear,
I’m a naughty little girl, — Oh, dear,
I like it.
[104]
LINES TO A SAXAPHONE.
You blear, barbaric beast,
I’ve often heard you moan,
And passionately pant and sigh,
And gargle, grunt, and groan,
I’ve heard you stammer, heard you sneeze,
I’ve listened to your neigh,
I’ve heard you cough and snort and wheeze,
But I’ve never heard you play,
I’ve heard you crow all night,
And gurgle, spit and squeak,
I’ve heard you nicker, heard you bark
And squall and scream and shriek;
I’ve heard you hiccough, heard you howl,
And listened to your bay,
I’ve heard you grumble, heard you growl,
But I’ve never heard you play,
I’ve heard your gutteral gamut
With the accent on the gutter,
I’ve speared your suspirations
And I hate the noise you utter;
I have heard you bleat and blather,
I have heard you bawl and bray,
Heard you worked up to a lather —
But I’ve never heard you play,
[105]
I DO NOT CARE
I do not care how grand the stones
They rear upon my weary bones,
How costly be the wreathes they lay
Above my poor, unworthy clay,
Nor what they say about me there,
I do not care.
I do not care how sad the hymn
That fills the solemn aisle and dim,
How lofty and impressive be
The sounding service meant for me,
How long and fervent be the prayer;
I do not care.
Just this is all I ask the day
I take the silent road and gray;
That on my simple stone they hew;
“Some little children loved him, too” . . .
What else they write about me there
I do not care.
[106]
LINES TO A CAFETERIA OR GLOM-SHOP
(After Byron)
The Aisles of Grease! The Aisle of Grease!
Where feeders trip it to the trough,
And grab their chance to glom a piece
Of fodder for the mid-day scoff,
(And scoff, I’d have you savvy, is
The scientific term for chow)
O, Aisles of Grease, you do some biz;
Kid Byron ought to see you now.
At noon we hook our shining tray
And shake a light fantastic toe,
To give your ensilage a play,
To win, to place, likewise to show;
On either side the victuals lie:
We spear them with a practiced hand,
The shy, seductive Cheese on Rye,
The blushing Egg, the blithe Ham-And.
The Pot Roast with the Spuds en bloc,
The Oysters on the Demi-Hull,
The Porcine Wrist, the Kindred Hock,
The Caviar Emptor (get me, cull?)
The salad a la K of C.
(Potato salad?) Thatta boy!
The Movie (custard) Pie, ah! me!
The Aisles of Grease are full of joy.
The Aisle of Grease! The Aisles of Grease!
I’ve walked among your trodden ways,
And found a gastronomic peace
That beggars pleonastic phrase;
Redundant rhymes and verbose verse
Your beamish beauties may not tell:
As Chaucer says, “You aint so worse,”
As Swinburne says, “You sure are swell.”
[108]
A ’ORRIBLE ’YMN OF ’ATE
Of pernicious protoplasms
I have known some goophy runts
Who have druv me into spasms
With their irritating stunts;
And of pestilential persons
And exasperated eggs,
I have mingled with the worse’ uns
I have drained the bitter dregs.
There are people who say “lookit” —
Whom I hate unto the core,
For the world I cannot brook it
I could glory in their gore;
There are people who say “listen”
Whom I’d madly, gladly kill . . .
But the super-pest is this ’un
In my categoric bill.
Ah, that pest of pests I meet him
Near my domiciliar hut,
And some morning I shall greet him
With a wallop on the nut,
I shall greet him and no other
With a sweet, resounding smack,
For he always calls me “Brother,”
And he slaps me on the back.
[109]
THE STRANGER
“Who’s that stranger Mother, dear?
Look! he knows us, ain’t he queer?”
“Hush my own, don’t talk so wild;
He’s your father, dearest child.”
“He’s my father? no such thing;
Father died away last Spring.”
“Father didn’t die, you dub,
Father joined a golfing club.
“But they closed the club, so he
Has no place to go, you see,
No place left for him to roam,
That is why he is coming home.”
“Kiss him . . . he won’t bite you, child —
All them golfing guys look wild.”
[110]
A PARENTAL ACCOMPLISHMENT
There’s little in my head but pains,
No balance in my mental bank,
When someone handed out the brains
I drew a blank,
And yet my coco deftly toys
With stunts that certain genius takes;
I’ve learned to understand the noise
My daughter makes.
When first she said, “Gee gee boo woo”
It didn’t mean a thing to me,
but now it’s easy to contrue
Her code, e. g.
“Gee gee” I’ve learned is “Genevieve
And “Boo woo” is a dog — or cat —
It takes a genius, I believe,
To figure that.
“Dow dow” is “down” and “gug” is “egg,”
But “gug gug gug” in this refrain
Means “Give me breakfast, shake a leg,
Or I’ll raise Cain.”
“Ray ray” is Rachael, “hup” means “Come
And warm my milk and get my chair.”
“Mac mac” is me, her mother’s “Mum” —
I’ll say I’m there!
For though I have a loft to let
Unfurnished, too, and rather dark,
At learning dorothyeese, you bet,
I’m quite a shark;
My conk a solitude enjoys,
But my one stunt a genius takes;
Translating all the kinds of noise
My daughter makes.
[111]
MY BOYHOOD HERO
The hero of my boyhood days
(As near as I recall)
Was not Aladdin, Charles the Great,
Nor Brian Boru nor Paul,
Nor Socrates nor William Tell,
Nor Hannibal a-tall.
But he who claimed my fealty
And undivided cheers,
Whose form I see as I retrace
The trail of vanished years,
Was a boy I used to know in school,
Who’d learned to wag his ears.
I never longed with I was young
To own a massive brain,
Nor lead a million men to war
Nor sail the Spanish main,
Nor roam the world from pole to pole
For honor or for gain.
No wistful wishes such as these
Excited me to tears,
One thing alone I yearned to find
Within my span of years —
I only prayed that I some day
Would learn to move my ears.
P. S. — I have.
[112]
AIN’T IT THE TRUTH?
You have a nice assortment
Of stratagems profound
That you are always showing off
When no one is around.
But when a visitor arrives
To whom we’ve sung your praise,
You are a small but perfect boob,
In fifty-seven ways.
When we’re alone, you’re awful smart
And stunts you have a score.
You know a coupla scales by heart
And sing them o’er and o’er;
You dance with airy, fairy grace
When we’re alone, somehow,
But when a stranger’s in the place,
You’re graceful like a cow.
I tell my friends how cute you are,
Ingenious, clever, keen,
I praise you as a youthful star,
I boost your childish bean;
And when they come in gangs and herds
To see your wondrous tricks,
And hear your coruscating words,
Your brains are mostly nix.
It isn’t right, it isn’t fair,
It saps our vim and gimp,
We always bill you for a bear
And you turn out a simp;
And when my friends have slunk away
You’re clever as of yore,
I tell them . . . But they sadly say,
“We’ve heard that stuff before.”
[113]
THE MAIDS
One by one they come and go,
Thin, sebaceous, nimble, slow,
Every hue and every style,
Come to visit us a while,
Come to bring us some new sorrow,
Here today and gone tomorrow.
When you think that one is true
She has beat it P. D. Q.
One by one they come and go,
Ain’t it so?
One by one, an endless string,
Summer, autumn, winter, spring,
Minnie, Mable, Hilda, Sue,
Bridget, Carrie, Lily, Lou,
Now and then a prize appears
(Once in every hundred years).
But, alas, they never stay,
Neighbors lure them kind away,
Curse the fiends who stoop to such,
We have never done it (much),
But the good ones they are few,
Ain’t it true?
One by one they come and flee,
What a cures it’s got to be!
Every week another cove
Cranking up the kitchen stove;
Some just couldn’t if they would,
Others wouldn’t if they could
And the latest one to call
Always is the worst of all.
Will it never, never cease?
Will we ever get some peace?
Them are mighty harsh words, Nell,
But ain’t it hell!
[114]
A FELLER NEVER CARES ABOUT
THE OTHER FELLER’S KID
When loving fathers rush to me with high lights in
their glims,
And prattle of their cunning hers and supercunning
hims,
How booful lil Squijums is a fool for orange juice,
How she can hold her head straight up and warble
like Carus’,
How soon she learned her toeses are impervious to
munchin —
When on her back how cutely she rolls over on her
luncheon —
O when a loony father comes and blabbers thus to me
I counter with a lecture on my cunning progenee!
Why shouldn’t I ignore the tricks his little shaver did?
A feller never cares about the other feller’s kids!
When youthful fathers come to me with chests of
wondrous size,
And tell me what their offspring did I do not feign
surprise,
I do not arch my brows a bit, I do not catch my
breath,
The crudest thing my kiddy does has got ’em skinned
to death!
I do not even listen as they strum the golden strings —
I may say “Yes?” or “Ain’t that nice!” or other
friendly things;
A smile of sweet benevolence may decorate my dial,
But just the same my innards may be coming to a
“bile.”
Why should I get excited over what his young ’un
did?
A feller never cares about the other feller’s kid!
[115]
You protoplasmic papas with the flabbergasting geeks,
I’ve listened to your gibber now for many weary weeks.
You may have thought you stunned me with the
wonders you unveiled,
When I was merely hatching up a scheme to have you
jailed;
You may have thought I listened when you told me
of your brat —
But I was merely hankering to swat you on the slat!
O save your blather while you may, it isn’t any use —
You bull for your bambino, but I pull for my pa-
poose —
You’ll never get a rise from me on what your snoodles
did,
For a feller never cares about the other feller’s kid!
[116]
WHEN BILLY SPEAKS
When Billy speaks,
Gesticulates and chins the bar and shrieks
At Beelzebub and all his impish geeks
He does it pretty swell,
He does
Becuz
His langwidge has a strong sulphuric smell —
He knows how to give the devils h — l!
(And, on the level,
What more appropriate gift to give a devil?)
When Billy speaks
He grabs our murky conscience by the breeks
And beats it to a palpitating pulp
While Satan runs around and hollers “Hulp!”
And all the minor devils, bales on bales,
All sit around a-holding of their tails,
Emitting curdling cries and woozy wails,
For Billy’s put their business on the blink:
The sinful goop
Escapes the coop,
Escapes the toils of sin and all that stuff,
He hits the trail, the narrow trail and rough,
Forswears the ice cream den and Hinky Dink,
The cunning cognescenti and the classes,
The devilish demitasses,
And all the vicious lure of choc’late sody
He passes up for Billy and for Rody.
When Billy speaks
To all us sinful geeks
We brighten up the corner where we are
In case it ain’t the corner of a bar,
And start the Glidden tour to Heaven’s gate
(Though some of us get started rather late —)
[117]
At least we start the tour,
Of that we’re pretty sure,
And though we may not reach the first control,
When Billy speaks we think we see the goal;
An easy goal to reach,
If we forswear the movie and the beach,
The gumdrop and the chocolate eclair,
Banana splits, the wicked, sinful snare,
And if we conscientiously forbear
To dance or sing or shout, except in prayer,
Salvation then will come to all us geeks;
At least that’s what I glean
When Billy speaks.
[118]
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH REVISED
Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smith may stand
And hammer with his sledge till he
Has bunions on his hand,
And rivulets of perspirash
Meander o’er his phiz.
I envy not his occupash
Nor hanker for his biz.
Week in, week out, from morn ’till night,
He sits beneath his tree
And flivvers pass him in their flight,
Sweet Land of Flivverty!
And he is full of meaty might,
Of wigor, werve, and wim,
But there is not a horse in sight
Except the horse on him.
He sees beside his chestnut tree
The flivvers fly pell-mell,
He wishes very earnestly
That they would go to — grass,
For they have put him on the bum,
And likewise on the fritz,
And there he sits and sits and sits
And sits and sits and sits.
[120]
IN WHICH WE CONSIDER STRIKES
It was a pleasant evening,
Old Kaspar’s work was done,
He was a walking delegate,
Likewise a sonuvagun.
“It’s pretty dull,” he said to me;
“I guess I’ll call a strike” said he.
“But strikes are awful things,” said I,
“They cause a lot of woe.
When calling strikes no doubt that you
Have cause for doing so?”
To me he made this strange reply:
“I do not need a reason why.
“When times are good I call a strike
Because I think I should,
When times are bad I call a strike
Because they are not good.”
“Why do you call one now?” I cried.
“There ain’t no reason,” he replied.
So from their prosperous pleasant jobs,
Old Kaspar called his men,
And after they’d been out awhile
He sent them back again.
And the strikers muse and say, “Be gee,
Why is it called a Victory?”
[121]
LINES ON THE REAL CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
Within the last short week or so
The world has changed, I’d have you know.
The maid is always here on time,
Her work is neat, her eats sublime;
The janitor is sweet and gay,
He even gave us heat today;
The milkman doesn’t tramp the stairs,
Or holler like a flock of bears;
The grocery boy is too polite,
For him it doesn’t seem just right;
The mailman on his morning rounds
Greets me and mine with pleasant sounds;
The elevator man is kind,
The office boy has learned to mind;
My yearly smile today I smiled;
I found my papers neatly filed;
Oh, why are they so pleasant,
And serve me with a thrill?
They think they’ll get a present,
A lovely Christmas present —
They’re sure they’ll get a present —
And they will.
(Maybe.)
[122]
A LETTER TO SANTA CLAUS
Dear Santa Claus: I take my pen
In hand tonight to write
A list of things you must not bring
My girl on Monday night;
A list of gifts that we will treat
As deadly contraband —
Of which we strongly disapprove,
For which we will not stand.
You must not bring my girl a drum
For she makes noise enough,
Or dolls with sawdust giblets, for
She can’t digest the stuff;
Don’t bring her colored fairy books,
I ask you for her sake —
She finished one a month ago
And got the tummy ache.
We draw the line on wooden blocks,
She drops them, as she goes,
Where I can step on them at night
And break my fragile toes,
Or else she lightly tosses them
Through sundry window-panes —
Where they can fall on passersby
And spatter out their brains.
Don’t bring her gooey candy sticks —
She puts them in my hat
Or toy balloons — she jumps on these,
Or ties them to the cat.
If you must bring her Christmas gifts
Then bring a nobler kind,
The sort of gift that stirs the soul
And elevates the mind.
[123]
Bring classic statues, cunning brass,
And art profound and chaste;
Bring tomes of amaranthine verse —
Let’s cultivate her taste.
She’s eighteen months of age today —
The age to start her right;
That’s why I take my pen in hand
To write to you tonight.
[124]
A CHRISTMAS THOUGHT
His ears were torn and tattered;
And furrows ridged his neck;
He looked just like the Hesperus,
Our most successful wreck,
Or like the little boy who paused
Upon the burning deck.
“What battle were you in,” I cried,
“That you should look this way?
Were you in Rheims or Wipers
Upon some flaming day,
Or were you fighting on the Marne?
O, tell me, sir, I pray.”
“You’ve got me wrong,” he whispered;
“I joined no fighting crew,
I never shelled a submarine
Upon the briny blue.
It must be quiet though, compared
To what I’ve just been through.”
Said I: “You have mislaid an ear
And dropped a nose somewhere,
And through your rents and apertures
The sun is shining fair —
And all this happened over here,
And not, sir, over there?”
He bowed his poor dismantled head
And softly did he say:
“The ones who took me all apart
And done me up this way
Were forty thousand women, sir,
Who shopped on me today.”
