Captain Billy's Whiz Bang, Vol. 2, No. 22, July, 1921 — Smokehouse Poetry, Part 1

_Smokehouse Poetry_ _Whiz Bang has a double-winner for Smokehouse fans next issue!

“The Lure of the Tropics” and “The Far East.

”_ _“O’er chicle camps and logwood swamps_ _I hunted him many a moon,_ _Then found my man in a long pit pan_ _At the edge of a blue lagoon.

_ _“The chase was o’er at the farther shore;_ _It ended a two-year quest,_ _And I left him there with an empty stare_ _And a knife stuck in his chest.

”_ _That’s the swing of the most noted poem of the tropics, “The Far East,” an excerpt from which follows, is familiar to Philippine war veterans_: _“By the mud hole down in Subic_ _Looking lazy at the bay,_ _There’s a goo-goo dame awaiting,_ _And I think I hear her say:_ _‘Come you back you malo soldier_ _Come you back from o’er the sea,_ _Come you back and pay your jaw-bone,_ _Por-a-que!

You jaw-bone me?

’”_ * * * * * The Hoboes’ Convention By George Liebst You have heard of big conventions, And there’s some you can’t forget, But get this straight, there’s none so great As when the hoboes met.

To Portland, Oregon, last year They came from near and far;

On “tops” and “blind” where cinders whined, They rode on every car.

Three hundred came from New York state, Some came from Eagle Pass;

That afternoon, the third of June, They gathered there en masse.

From Lone Star state came “Texas Slim” And “Jack the Katydid”;

With “Lonesome Lou” from Kal’mazoo Came “San Diego Kid.

” And “Denver Dan” and “Boston Red” Blew in with “Hell-fire Jack,” “Andy Lang” from lakeshore gang, “Big Mac” from Mackinack.

I saw some boys I’d never met;

A bo called “New York Spike,” “Con, the Sneak,” from Battle Creek, And “Mississippi Ike.

” Old “New York Bill,” dressed like a duke, Shook hands with “Frisco Fred”;

And “Half-breed Joe” from Mexico Shot craps with “Eastport Ed.

” “St. Louis Jim” and “Pittsburg Paul” Fixed up a jungle stew, While “Slipp’ry Slim” and “Bashful Tim” Croaked gumps for our menu.

The “Jockey Kid” spilled out a song Along with “Desp’rate Sam”;

And “Paul the Shark” from Terrors’ Park Clog-danced with “Alabam.

” We gathered ’round the jungle fire, The night was passing fast;

We’d all done time for every crime, And talk was of the past.

All night we flopped around the fire Until the morning sun;

Then from the town the cops came down— We beat it on the run.

We scattered to the railroad yards, And left the “bulls” behind;

Some hit the freights for other states, And many rode the “blind.

” Well, here I am in Denver town, A hungry, tired-out bo;

The flier’s due, when she pulls through, I’ll grab her and I’ll blow.

That’s her—she’s whistling for the block— I’ll make her on the fly;

It’s number nine—Santa Fe line, I’m off again—Good Bye!

* * * * * Mushy Stuff, Eh?

He blushed a fiery red, Her heart went pittypat;

She gently hung her head, And looked down, at the mat.

* * * * * Mary Jane _Ah, here we have the second spasm of the rollicking thirst emporium ditty_: Oh, she promised to meet me When the clock struck seventeen, At the stockyards, just three miles out of town, Where the pig eyes and pig ears and the Tough old Texas steers Sell for sirloin steak at Eighteen cents a pound.

CHORUS:

Oh, she’s my honey, my baby, She’s maul-eyed, she’s crazy, She’s knock-kneed, she’s pigeon-toed, she’s lame.

Although her lower teeth are phoney From eating Swift’s bologna, She’s my freckled face, consumptive Mary Jane.

* * * * * Casey’s Revenge _Did you ever hear that noted recitation, “Casey at the Bat?

” Here’s a baseball soul with a more generous poetic disposition.

He replies to the old classic, which, as you remember, ended with the mighty Casey striking out, and Glory-be, it sure gives us a thrill, and reminds us of our own Mudville nine.

Heave ho to this “Curve”_— —By James Wilson.

There were saddened hearts in Mudville for a week or even more;

There were muttered oaths and curses—every fan in town was sore.

“Just think,” said one, “how soft it looked with Casey at the bat, And then to think he’d go and pull a bush league trick like that.

” All his past fame was forgotten; he was now a hopeless “shine,” They called him “Strike-out Casey” from the mayor on down the line.

And as he came to bat each day his bosom heaved a sigh, While a look of hopeless fury shone in mighty Casey’s eye.

The lane is long, some one has said, that never has a turn again, And Fate, though fickle, often gives another chance to men.

And Casey smiled—his rugged face no longer wore a frown;

The pitcher who had started all the trouble came to town.

All Mudville had assembled; ten thousand fans had come To see the twirler who had put big Casey on the bum;

And when he stepped into the box the multitude went wild, He doffed his cap in proud disdain—but Casey only smiled.

“Play ball,” the umpire’s voice rang out, and then the game began;

But in that throng of thousands there was not a single fan Who thought that Mudville had a chance; and with the setting sun Their hopes sank low—the rival team was leading “four to one.

” The last half of the ninth came round, with no change in the score;

But when the first man up hit safe the crowd began to roar.

The din increased, the echo of ten thousand shouts was heard When the pitcher hit the second and gave “four balls” to the third.

Three men on bases—no one out—three runs to tie the game, A triple meant the highest niche in Mudville’s hall of fame;

But here the rally ended and the gloom was deep as night When the fourth one “fouled to catcher” and the fifth “flew out at right,” A dismal groan in chorus came—a scowl was on each face— When Casey walked up, bat in hand, and slowly took his place;

His bloodshot eyes in fury gleamed; his teeth were clinched in hate He gave his cap a vicious hook and pounded on the plate.

But fame is fleeting as the wind, and glory fades away;

There were no wild and woolly cheers, no glad acclaim this day.

They hissed and groaned and hooted as they clamored “strike him out.

” But Casey gave no outward sign that he had heard this shout.

The pitcher smiled and cut one loose; across the plate it sped;

Another hiss, another groan—“strike one” the umpire said.

Zip—like a shot, the second curve broke just below his knee— “Strike two” the umpire roared aloud; but Casey made no plea.

No roasting for the umpire now—his was an easy lot.

But here the pitcher whirled again—was that a rifle shot?

A whack, a crack, and out through space the leather pellet flew— A blot against the distant sky, a speck against the blue.

About the fence in center field in rapid whirling flight, The ball sailed on; the blot grew dim and then was lost to sight.

Ten thousand hats were thrown in air, then thousand threw a fit;

But no one ever found the ball that mighty Casey hit.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land dark clouds may hide the sun, And somewhere bands no longer play and children have no fun;

And somewhere over blighted lives there hangs a heavy pall;

But Mudville hearts are happy now—for Casey hit the ball.

* * * * * Expurgated