Chapter 18
Section No. 18, Part 2 of Captain Billy's Whiz-Bang, Volume 2, No. 19, April 1921. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Jonathan Pruitt. Captain Billy's Whiz-Bang Volume 2, Number 19, April 1921 by W. H. Fawcett The Hellbound Train
Tom drank until he could drink no more, then went to sleep on the barroom floor, where he slumbered with a troubled brain to dream that he rode on a hellbound train. Wilder and wilder the country grew, faster and faster the engine flew,
Louder and louder the thunder crashed. Brighter and brighter the lightning flashed. And out in the distance there rose a yell. Aha! said the devil. We're nearing hell.
Then, oh, how the passengers shrieked in pain and begged the devil to stop the train. You have bullied the weak. You have robbed the poor. The starving brother you turned from your door. You have laid up gold where canker rust.
You've given free use of your fleshy lusts. So I'll land you safe in a lake of fire, where souls wail in the flaming mire. And Tom woke with an agonized cry, his clothes soaked in sweat and hair standing high. And he prayed as he'd never prayed before, to be saved from drink and the devil's power. And his vow and prayers were not in vain, for nevermore he rode on the hell-bound train.
Love, like a good drink, is a wonderful bracer. Divorce, like ginger ale, is a marvelous chaser. After the Raid A raid on the National Dutch Room Cabaret in Minneapolis recently, in which two hundred fur-clad women and velvet-pocketed escorts were piled into patrol wagons amidst a crashing of hip-bocket glassware,
inspired Mr. McKillops to write this poetic story. By Bud L. McKillops Listen, dearie, stop your crying, cause they've locked you in a cell. Don't make noises like you're dying Oh, I know, it's simply hell
Cryin' dear won't move the jailer Won't make him unlock the door Use some rouge, you're lookin' paler I've been in these raids before Dozen times, I guess, they nailed me
When they used to have a line Ward boss always came and bailed me Sometimes even paid my fine Never mind that press sob, sister Dry your eyes and play the game.
Ain't no story. Beat it, mister. Good lord, dear, don't give your name. Don't tell him a damn thing, honey. Hush now, dear, I know your tale.
Just like me, you needed the money. And stepped out to grab the kale. Lost your job. Maybe slack season. Didn't have the price to eat?
Maybe not, but that's the reason most girls start to hit the street. Homeless, hungry, maybe freezing Soon you found the business paid And there wasn't no slack season Or no layoffs in our trade
Conscience hurt when long-faced preachers Said as how you'd go to hell Dear, the sons of those same teachers Came to buy the thing you sell Just forget those salaried prayers
When they tell you all those things Tell them that the low-wage payers don't help grow no angel wings Hush now, dearie, come on, stop her Cut the weeps and be a sport Fix your hair, here comes a copper
For to take us into court See the judge, bet he's been staying Out all night, he's got the jerks We're up now, what's he saying? Holy gee, we got the works
When wifey's away Of all the insidious temptations invidious, contrived by the devil to put a man down, there is no more elusive, seductive, abusive than the snare to the man when the wife's out of town. He feels such delightfulness, stay out all nightfulness, be sure to get tightfulness. Tis one without pain.
A bachelor's rakishness, what won't you takeishness, none can explain. His wife may be beautiful, tender, and dutiful. Tis not that her absence would cause him delight. But the grand opportunity, the baleful immunity, Scatters his scruples as day scatters night.
There was a young man named Whiteside. He always slept on his right side. When the cooties would crawl, you could hear the boob bawl As he made a quick dash for the outside. The Blue Raven by C.P. Cyprius
Once upon a day so dreary, Congress pondered, weak and weary, Over many a novel twist to laws that smacked of days of yore. While it nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door. Only this, and nothing more.
They were blue laws in the offing, with a ghastly, ghostly coughing, spreading germs of discontent, dissatisfaction, gloom o'er all, causing men to shrink and shiver, many hearts to quake and quiver, hoping something would deliver them from all these laws that bore sorrow for them evermore. All day Sunday, people sleeping, while the rest are gently weeping, and weeping as they never wept in all their lives before. Blue laws wrecked the joy of living, made men stern and unforgiving. These laws passed, there was no living as in the good old days of yore.
Happiness? No, nevermore. Legislations undermining freedom's precepts, people pining. For the liberty they thought was theirs, and had so long before. Straight-laced styles are fast becoming, just the thing, you know, And bumming is to be about like slumming, which all people should abhor,
On the Sabbath evermore. Crooks and purists now are pairing, common folks are all despairing. Peace and joy and true contentment is a dream of ancient lore. They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of winning Or they'd have the judges fining them and looking for their gore
Wooden stocks, forevermore Oh, the country's draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorning All the house is in the land and crepe is seen on every door Hear the people softly crying for their freedom that is lying On its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore
Freedoms fled forevermore. Interpretive Dancing I saw a barefoot lady dip and kneel and rise and poise and hover, as if to pin a pillow slip upon the line stretched high above her. This must be comedy, I said, some esoteric highbrow joshing.
This nymph who moves with classic tread is hanging out the family washing. The program told me I was wrong. The dance was labeled Slumber Song. I saw a maid with flying feet, whose clothes were singularly airy, go running through a field of wheat with all the fleetness of a fairy. When I had gazed a while askance at her abbreviated habit, I thought the title of this dance is Girl in Nighty Chasing Rabbit. My guess was wrong, the program said,
A Russian peasant's prayer for bread. Six damsels, very sparsely clad, In white diaphanous confections, Came tearing in and ran like mad In many different directions.
Aha! I cried. I think I get the meaning of this scene before us. The title of it, I will bet, Is Mouse's Stampede's A Siegfried Chorus. But my conjecture went astray.
The dance was woodland, birds in May Sweet simplicity of ye olden days Miss Pabst, young and fair, with a blue ribbon in her hair Sat under a bush of anhyzer When a bohemian, by plan, rushed some schlitz in a can
And she went home, extra pale, but wiser A Mother's Prayer Last night I dreamed, I never can forget I saw my son a prisoner at the bar A stripling with the honest eyes of youth
My baby strayed away from me so far And I, his mother, had to stand And see him there, so helpless and so dear God knows I thought I had done right But there stood leering crime and shame and fear
Lord, help me to keep the home fires burning bright And give my child his need of help and love Help me keep faith with him as thee with me And guard this life entrusted from above Nellie Putnam Chapman
The Underworld by Clem Yor I want to be square to the underworld And even a dog that is down I'd rather be a painter of smiles Than to carve a gruesome frown
So sit you down by my bungalow And we will enjoy the sky For brothers and sisters, pals of woe You're just as immortal as I We'd kiss her too
If blue were red, and red were blue And you were I, and I were you And you loved me, and I loved you And all alone were just we two And you were sure nobody knew
Would you kiss me? If I were you, and you were I And you so near, I could hear you sigh and then providing no one was nigh, and I wouldn't regret it by and by, wouldn't I? The Hooch Cure Blues by M. V. Sumner
Bring me a martini, waiter, and chase it with something that's wet. I went to a pink tea yesterday, and I haven't got over it yet. I hear they've discovered the North Pole, waiter. Gee, I wish I had it here now. They couldn't come any too cold for me to put on my aching brow.
T'was a stormy night at sea, waiter, and the waves ran mountains high. Personally, I was so stood the gills, and today I am awfully dry. Yes, t'was a frightful night on the sea, and many are missing, I think. But as near as I can remember, I never missed a drink. The one in blue got my spark, waiter.
Her side pal got my clock Oh, I don't want to know the time, waiter Just lead me down to the dock Yes, lead me down to the dock, waiter For watery grave I pine
The place for a man that's pickled Is over his head in the brine Just tell them I am at the merry-cur, waiter And that I died as a hero should Up to my neck in the cold old suds
Guaranteed drawn from the wood Say, after I've sank in the deep wader You'll do me one favor, I hope Tell him if I blow bubbles That wasn't for me eating soap
Who puts me in my little bed And spanks me till my face is red? My mother All to myself All to myself I think of you
Think of the things we used to do Think of the things we used to say Think of each happy yesterday Sometimes I sigh, and sometimes I smile, But I keep each old and golden while all to myself.
