Chapter 10
Section 10 of Captain Billy's Whiz-Bang, Volume 2, No. 12, January 1921. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Kristen Hand. Captain Billy's Whiz-Bang, Volume 2, No. 16, January 1921, by W. H. Fawcett. Smokehouse Poetry Part 2
Evolution Up to Date In the December issue, we had the original Langdon Smith's evolution. Now steps forth Lewis Allen with a much more modern expression on the tadpole and fish idea. This is it. By Lewis Allen
When you were a tadpole and I was a fish in the Paleozoic time, t'was side by side near the ebbing tide we tangoed through the slime. We skittered with many a caudal flip through the maze of each foxtrot step, for we had the craze in those ancient days to the dance stuff we were hip. Mindless we lived and mindless we loved and mindless we passed away,
which all goes to show that long ago our brains were the brains of today. The world turned on in the lathe of time with many a mighty twist. We were normal then, beyond your ken. No watch adorned your wrist. We were amphibians, scaled and tailed, and garbed in the latest style. We coiled at ease neath the dripping trees, or played with a crocodile. Croaking and blind with our side-laced feet, writing a language dumb.
Though we had no brains, we had no pains, and that was going some. Yet happy we lived, and happy we loved, and happy we went on our way. And believe me, kid, when I say we did, which is more than we do today. And the eons came, and the eons fled, and days came with the nights. To our surprise, we all had eyes, so we took in the sights. Then light and swift through the jungle trees, we swung from bough to bough, or loafed mid the balms of the fronded palms. Wish we could do it now. And oh,
what beautiful years were those when we learned the use of speech, when our lives were stilled and our senses thrilled as we chattered with some dear peach. And that was a million years ago, years that have fled away. Yet here tonight in the glaring light, we sit in a wild cafe. And your thoughts are deep as a buckwheat cake. Your peroxide hair is great. Though your heart is cold and your age is old, you love to hesitate. Once we howled through the jungle wastes, with a
club each one his mate, and she had to work, nor could she shirk, lest a blow would be her fate. But now we go on our bended knees to a girl we would make our wife, and she keeps us broke until we croak, alas, for the modern life. So as we dance that luncheon here, missing each savory dish, I'm feeling blue for I wish that you were a tadpole and I a fish. Siam's National Anthem, to the tune of America.
Ova-tanus-siam, gif-a-tanus-siam, ova-tanus. Sucha-tamas-siam, inokan-gif-va-tam. Osucha-nas-siam, osucha-nas. A regular present. She wouldn't tell what Santa brought.
we hope this don't sound shocking, but when she got in her brand new car, we saw what she had in her stocking. Confessions of a Dope Fiend. The following poem, written by a dope fiend, is the first of a series he has contributed to this magazine. Although these poems are morbid in character, the editor hopes their lesson will serve as warning to all to touch not, taste, shoot nor smoke. This is the author's opening explanation. I started out wrong when I was a kid
and now my days are blue. Cigarettes, booze, wild women, and dope. I'm a wreck at 22. In Dreamy Chinatown by BT Los Angeles. As I lie in this room all hazy with smoke from the dopes smoking hop and sniffing at coke, my mind wanders back just a short year ago to the time I first started at hitting the snow. But soon I'll be dreaming again in my sleep of my little gray home way across the deep. I've thought of dear mother as much as I can. I've fought against the dope
and fought like a man. But here as I lie on my dirty old bunk in the Hong Kong hotel with my head full of junk, I am hopelessly gone and await the last bell that will usher me home to the dark depths of hell. There's a little red devil a-prodding my feet, begging me gently to fall into sleep. I'm gradually slipping, so here's my last knell, because I am under the Chinaman's spell. Flirtation in a flower bed. I had a flower garden, but my love for it is dead,
cause I found a bachelor's button in my black-eyed Susan's bed. Fairies revel in moonshine. When old Bill Shakespeare outlined his tale for The Merry Wives of Windsor, he certainly used extraordinary judgment in peering into the future. His fifth act and fifth scene are almost a duplicate of present life in New York City, that grand village by the sea where red neckties sell at a premium and moonshine lights the bright Broadway. Here are just four lines that tell a story in
themselves. They are fairies. He that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch, no man their works must eye. Fairies, black, gray, green, and white, you moonshine revelers and shades of night. Something stirring. First convulsion. Her death was so sudden, her death was so sad, she gave up her life, t'was all that she had. Second convulsion. She now lies sleeping silently beneath a willow bough. There's always something stirring when a freight train meets a cow.
That's when I need you. Serenade of a whiz-bang hen. I don't need you in the morning. I don't need you in the night. I don't need you when I'm hungry. I don't need you when I fight. I don't need you when I'm lonely. I don't need you when I'm blue. But when Farmer Billy wants some eggs, that's when I need you. Tell him now. If with pleasure you are viewing any work a man is doing. If you like him or you love him, tell him now. Don't withhold your approbation till the
parson makes oration, and he lies with snowy lilies o'er his brow. For no matter how you shout it, he really won't care about it. He won't know how many teardrops you have shed. If you think some praise is due him, now's the time to slip it to him, for he cannot read his tombstone when he's dead. More than fame and more than money is the comment, kind and sunny, and the hearty warm approval of a friend. For it gives to life a savor, and it makes you stronger, braver, and it
gives you heart and spirit to the end. If he earns your praise, bestow it. If you like him, let him know it. Let the word of true encouragement be said. Do not wait till life is over and he's underneath the clover, for he cannot read his tombstone when he's dead. Or a Finger Ring by Gabe Caffrey. I want to be a doctor with prescriptions all my own, to write them out and flop about as dead as any stone. I'd love to be a doctor and have my little nip. Oh, I want to be a
doctor and sip and sip and sip. Come on, Joe. Gone are the days when we got beer in a can. Gone are the days before we got the ban Gone are the days when we were a highball fan I hear the angel sadly calling Come dry, man
Chorus I'm coming, I'm coming And I have the ready dough I hear those dominoes a-calling Come on, Joe
Police inspection We were crowded in the cellar Not a soul would dare to sleep It was midnight in the barroom And old Joe lay in a heap
As we huddled there in darkness each one seeing snakes and bears. They're all drunk, the barkeep shouted as he staggered down the stairs. But his little barmaid whispered, passing him a quart of gin, there's a copper at the back door. Should I let the cuckoo in? How Old is Anne? by Billy B. Where can a man buy a cap for his knee or a key for a lock of his hair? Or can his eyes be an academy because there are
pupils there. In the crown of his head what gems are found? Who travels the bridge of his nose? Does the calf of his leg get hungry at times and devour the corn on his toes? Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail? Where's the shade from the palm of his hand? How does he sharpen his shoulder blades? I'm tamed if I understand. The Bachelor's Dream. Then give us the dances of days long gone by with plenty of clothes
and steps not so high. Oust turkey trot capers and buttermilk glides, the hurdy gird twists and the wiggle tail slide.
Then let us feast our tired optics once more on a genuine woman as sweet as of yore. Yes, time,
please turn backward and grant our request for God's richest blessing, but not one undressed. End of section 10.
