These poems are from Slams of Life by J.P McEvoy illustrated by Frank White; P. F. Volland Company, Chicago, USA; 1919; pp. 100-101, 109.
THE STRANGER
by
J. P. McEvoy
“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.”
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 elixir,
That are guaranteed to fix ’er,
But a golluf panacea there is not,
There is not!
Oh a golluf panacea there is not.
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.
Finis