Chapter 15
read by larry wilson captain billy's whiz bang volume two number seventeen february nineteen twenty one by w h fawcett smokehouse poetry part one whiz bang in its next issue will bring back to life robert w services lady that's known as a loo and the picturesque alaskan bar-room of his tragical masterpiece the shooting of dan mcgrew but i want to state and my words are straight and i'll bet my poke they're true that one of you is a hound of hell and that one is dan mcgrew that's a flash of the trail witch service leads to the realm of dangerous dan it will be republished in full in the march issue the editor the shimmy shaker by carl m hedgedon did you ever hear the story of the shimmy shaking maid who could shake a wicked shimmy but of men she was afraid she could shimmy in the morning she could shimmy in the night she could shimmy in the bedroom she could shimmy loose or tight she could shimmy in the ballroom she could shimmy on the street she could shimmy after dinner with a wiggle slow and sweet she could shimmy on a mountain
she could shimmy in a pool when it comes to shimmy shaking she's a shimmy shaking fool a tomfooler rhyme it was midnight on the ocean not a streetcar was in sight the sun was shining brightly and it rained all day that night it was a summer night in winter the rain was snowing fast a barefoot boy with shoes on stood sitting on the grass it was evening and the rising sun was setting in the west and the little fishes in the trees were huddling in their nest The rain was pouring down, the moon was shining bright, and everything that you could see was hidden out of sight. While the organ peeled potatoes, lard was rendered by the choir. While the sexton rung a dishrag, someone set the church on fire.
Holy smoke, the preacher shouted. In the rain he lost his hair. Now his head resembles heaven, for there's no parting there. How's business? Business is poor, said the beggar. said the undertaker. It's dead. Falling off, said the writing school teacher.
The druggist, oh, vile, he said. It's all right with me, said the author. Picking up, said the man on the dump. My business is sound, said the bandman. Said the athlete, I'm kept on the jump. Answer from your heart. Note. The author of the following poem is an ex-sailor who now lives in Long Beach, California. It is a poem that all red-blooded men should read, and then ponder a bit.
Here is the writer's prelude, explaining how he happened to bring forth such a gem. In and out of the circus, I have noted that when two or more men engage in conversation, their talk eventually turns to women. Women, bad, indifferent, and sometimes good, is generally the chief topic of the man. But when one brings in some word about a good woman, he is often silenced by stares or cutting
remarks. Recently I was confined in a naval brig, no need to mention the offense, and a conversation was being carried on in the bullpen that caused me to write the following lines. E. H. Gantenbein Pipe down, fellows, let me talk, please. Settle yourselves in comfort, make yourselves at ease. I have a few questions I'd like to put to you. You'll find they're very aged, not one of them is new. You've just been talking, women, and the places you have been, and the happy times you've
had, and the drunks on Gordon Jen. While you tell of the pretty girl you met in Gay-Perry, and the one you took from your shipmate while he was far at sea, the one at Valparaiso you said she had black eyes, and the girl who lives in Frisco who took you by surprise. You've jabbered for an hour or more, and mentioned many a name. You've traveled clear around the world, and found no two the same. Now listen, fellow shipmates, while talking about your girls. Have you ever
thought of the two at home, more precious to you than pearls? How they're watching, waiting, hoping, sending prayers to God for you, asking Him to guide you onward to keep you straight and true, believing in you always, where'er you chance to roam, looking forward to the time when you'll be coming home. Now I'll ask you, fellowship mates, answer if you can. Have you always lived an honest life? Can you call yourself a man? Can you go back to your hometown and make that girl
your wife, and clasp your mother in your arms, and know you have that right. Now these are the questions I would ask, so shipmates do your part, think of the road you've traveled, and answer from your heart. A Sailor's Delight by Harold Taylor When I was young and handsome, it was always my delight to go to balls and dances, and stay out late at night. Twas at a ball I met him. He asked me for a dance. I knew he was a sailor by the
buttons on his pants. His shoes were nicely polished, his hair was neatly combed. I danced with him all evening, then he asked to see me home. He pressed me to him gently, then heaved a heavy sigh, and said, Dear Nellie, darling, my love will never die. Now, all you girls, this warning, just take a tip from me. Don't ever let a sailor take you sailing o'er the sea, for he'll kiss you oh so sweetly, and say there's none like you. But when he gets that bit of love, he'll sell
across the blue. The Hop Head Blues by B.T. Los Angeles. In this land of dopey dreams, smiling hoppy-headed scenes, where the Chinamen are smoking all day long, as I lay me down to sleep, hoppy visions o'er me creep. Then I hear the snowbirds sing this evening's song, Tam Tam Tam, the Coke and Morphine. I can hear my mother's moan underneath the starry flag. We must take another drag and return someday to our beloved home.
Yep, Quiz Bang readers, here are some more selections written by a dope fiend, the first of his series appearing in the January issue. From the standpoint of human interest towards the unfortunate victim of the drug habit, his poems are mighty interesting. furthermore they point a strong moral to lay off the junk the editor tonight i lie in a filthy room reclined on a bamboo bunk with a bamboo pipe and a lighted pot and a dew spot smeared with junk for when i feel downcast and blue down to the dreamy chink i sneak where i can hit the hop and slumber forgetting the weary world a week passion's fire now barely smoulders dope has led me far astray
still i think of the one who left me a year ago on christmas day my love for her has never left me and i know it never will even though i'm a fiend to dope and a slave to the hashish pill but here i lie in a suey bough with another night half spent with a pipe and a card of poppy mud and a hopcook from the orient
