Montreal Maree
You’ve heard of Belching Billy, likewise known as Windy Bill, As punk a chunk of Yukon scum as ever robbed a sluice; A satellite of Soapy Smith, a capper and a shill, A slimy
Her Letter
“I’m taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me; My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow, And even with my glasses on I’m troubled sore
Hot Digitty Dog
Hot digitty dog! Now, ain’t it queer, I’ve been abroad for over a year; Seen a helluva lot since then, Killed, I reckon, a dozen men; Six was doubtful, but six was sure, Three
Slugging Saint
‘Twas in a pub in Battersea They call the “Rose and Crown,” Quite suddenly, it seemed to me, The Lord was looking down; The Lord was looking from above, And shiny was His face,
The Ballad Of The Ice-Worm Cocktail
To Dawson Town came Percy Brown from London on the Thames. A pane of glass was in his eye, and stockings on his stems. Upon the shoulder of his coat a leather pad he
Belated Bard
The songs I made from joy of earth In wanton wandering, Are rapturous with Maytime mirth And ectasy of Spring. But all the songs I sing today Take tediously the ear: Novemberishly dark are
The Monster
When we might make with happy heart This world a paradise, With bombs we blast brave men apart, With napalm carbonize. Where we might till the sunny soil, And sing for joy of life,
Resignation
I’d hate to be centipede (of legs I’ve only two), For if new trousers I should need (as oftentimes I do), The bill would come to such a lot ‘twould tax an Astorbilt, Or
God's Vagabond
A passion to be free Has ever mastered me; To none beneath the sun Will I bow down, not one Shall leash my liberty. My life’s my own; I rise With glory in my
The Judgement
The Judge looked down, his face was grim, He scratched his ear; The gangster’s moll looked up at him With eyes of fear. She thought: ‘This guy in velvet gown, With balding pate, Who
Bookshelf
I like to think that when I fall, A rain-drop in Death’s shoreless sea, This shelf of books along the wall, Beside my bed, will mourn for me. Regard it. . . . Aye,
Suppose?
It’s mighty nice at shut of day With weariness to hit the hey, To close your eyes, tired through and through, And just forget that “you are you.” It’s mighty sweet to wake again
Procreation
It hurts my pride that I should be The issue of a night of lust; Yet even Bishops, you’ll agree, Obey the biologic ‘must’; Though no doubt with more dignity Than we of layman
Mammy
I often wonder how Life clicks because They don’t make women now Like Mammy was. When broods of two or three Content most men, How wonderful was she With children ten! Though sixty years
The Headliner And The Breadliner
Moko, the Educated Ape is here, The pet of vaudeville, so the posters say, And every night the gaping people pay To see him in his panoply appear; To see him pad his paunch