Kitabı oku: «The Bee's Bayonet (a Little Honey and a Little Sting)», sayfa 4

RUSSIA

 
Canst Thou, in all this babel, build aright
Freedom's Palladium? The long, black night
That, ages thru, hath dimmed your yearning eyes
And dulled your minds, still hovers o'er your skies.
A rift there was, disclosing to your view
The Dawn of Day, but then the darkness grew
Yet more intense, as if the Sun rebelled
At such a cheerless greeting and withheld
Its Light. And now again Night reigns supreme,
But just beyond the Day is all agleam.
 

BELGIUM

 
Sad-eyed and weary, Thou must suffer more,
Until thy supermen have paid the score
For outraged daughters, murdered sons and wives;
For ravaged homesteads, and brave soldiers' lives.
Be not dismayed! Altho your Cup of Woe
Is full to overflowing from the blow;
Tho Justice seems indifferent to your prayer,
And ruin stalks about you everywhere.
The day of reckoning is near at hand,
When Justice will restore your pillaged Land,
And Vengeance will unsheath its righteous blade
And flay the Teutons till your score is paid.
 

OUR FRIENDS ACROSS THE STREET

(To S. and W. A.)

 
When we're tired of reading essays,
Tho they be a mental treat;
When we're bored by social callers,
Be they ever so elite;
When we crave some relaxation
Or the Foursome's incomplete,
We S. O. S. or telephone
To our Friends across the Street.
 
 
When our larder needs renewing
Or our ice succumbs to heat;
When the signs of Drought are brewing
'Cause our "stock" is incomplete;
And our chairs are insufficient
When we have some guests to seat,
Why, we just go out and borrow
From our Friends across the Street.
 
 
When we're worried or in trouble,
And our projects meet defeat;
When our prospects seem quite hopeless,—
Life seems bitter that was sweet;
When we lose our nerve and falter
'Cause the rough way wounds our feet,
We can always find sweet comfort
In our Friends across the Street.
 
 
When we end, at last, our journey
And the saintly Peter greet,
Or descend to Realms Infernal
Where the Goats, rejected, bleat,
We would never feel contented,
Whether mixed with Chaff or Wheat,
If we couldn't be together
With our Friends across the Street.
 

EPITAPHS

 
I left this Vale of Tears to gain repose,
And change, for Harp and Wings, my worldly clothes;
There's no redress, so if I fall from grace
I'll be quite cool enough for either place.
 
 
Wed
Bled
Fled
Dead
Nufsed
 
 
Go not the way I went, O Mortal Man!
But follow out a more successful plan,
Lest you, as I am now, remorseful be
For imitating U. S. Currency.
 
 
For forty cents an hour I slaved
At Delpont's Powder Mills;
And all the money that I saved
Scarce paid my funeral bills.
 
 
Erected to our father is this stone:
He couldn't leave the whiskey flask alone;
To Spirit World he vanished from our sight;
We hope he's very snug, and know he's tight.
 
 
Above the clouds I sojourn now,
The twinkling stars between,
Because I tried to figure how
To cook with gasolene.
 
 
I'm dead all right, but not quite all right dead,
For schemes of vengeance hurtle thru my head;
My wife eloped, a cheating chicken she;
Forsook her nest, and then flew back to me
With all her brood: I love her as I useter
But I'm a-laying for that other Rooster.
 
 
I followed Father with the rake
The day he scythed the clover;
So green, he cut me, by mistake
And my heydays were over.
 
 
Here sleeps, at last, our little baby Yorick!
We couldn't make him without paregoric.
 
 
I'm not averse to being dead,
But this I do despise,—
To have a tombstone at my head
Inscribed with blooming lies:
"A faithful spouse, a parent kind;
Alas, too soon he went!"
 
 
But this is all they had in mind—
To get my last red cent.
 
 
Assembled here my Wife is, Helen Nation:
'Twas gasoline that caused the separation,
Which shows how very short the mortal lease is,—
I think 'twas lucky to have saved the pieces!
 
 
Here let me rest without a sigh or tear,
I've learned my lesson—not to interfere!
If I could live my mortal life agin
I'd be a pussyfoot and not butt in.
 
 
My Mother, famous for her pies
Lies buried 'neath this shaft;
I wonder if, in Paradise,
She still pursues her craft?
She'll be too much engrossed, 'twould seem,
In picking on the lyre
To give attention to a scheme
To bake without a fire.
But if perchance she had the dough
And couldn't make it rise,
I'm sure she'd know just where to go
To look for heat supplies.
 
 
He called me "Liar!" Like a flash
My honor I defended,
Until his razor cut a gash
So deep, that I was ended.
If I could live my life again
I'd not invite an issue
But say, when villified, Amen!
And thus preserve my tissue.
 

THE CONQUEST OF THE SUN

 
The Morning Sun, with golden dart,
Crept to Milady's bed;
And as he drew the screens apart
A halo crowned her head.
 
 
Such radiance he'd never viewed;
Enraptured, he surveyed
Her virgin charms: beatitude!
He stooped and kissed the maid.
 
 
Entranced because her splendor seemed
To dazzle as it shone,
He conjured all his wiles and beamed
Her burning cheeks upon.
 
 
And then she woke, Milady fair,
Enchanted by his art,
To find, 'midst fires a slumb'ring there,
His dart had pierced her heart.
 
 
And so the Morning Sun can gain
Milady when he tries,
But Midnight Sons must lose, 'tis plain,
Because they're late to rise.
 

OWED TO A ROACH

 
O, Thou, who thru the sink doth blithely go;
(O, Little Roach, how could you sink so low?)
Who pipeth all your kin from kitchens near
Wherever crumbs of comfort may appear;
Who layeth siege, in mural cracks or trenches,
Where grease spots lure or rampant be the stenches;
Who hideth in the dough when bread is rising,—
I ask you to a Feast, of my devising,—
To eat these powders, 'round the plumbing placed,
Until your glutted carcass be effaced.
O, Little Roach, if you would selfish be
And not "ring in" your whole fool family,
We'd tolerate you: nay, a pet would make you
If you'd not scamper all our pie and cake thru!
 

THE MOODS OF THE WINDS

 
O, Breezes of Spring!
How they rollick and ring
With delight as they sing
Like birds on the wing.
 
 
O, Zephyrs of May!
With your balm and bouquet;
How you gladden the day
Like Fairies at play.
 
 
O, Winds of the Fall!
How they thrill and enthrall,
How they hurtle and call
With shrill caterwaul.
 
 
O, Winter's bleak Breath!
How it freezes and saith
To the ice-vested wraith,
"Thou'rt shrouded in Death."
 

THE TOXIC TIPPET

 
'Tis said that Mary, she of Reader note,
Was wrapped up in her lamb—her lambskin coat—
E'en after his demise, beatified.
He served her well, and for his mistress dyed.
 
 
Then Mary died, and took angelic form,
Because the lambskin (used to keep her warm)
Gave her the anthrax: what a cruel blow
To be thus snatched above from furbelow!
 

TWENTY-THIRD PSALM

 
My Shepherd careth for His flock:
Beneath a cloudless sky
In pastures green, by spring-cleft rock,
In luxury I lie.
 
 
He brings contentment to my soul
And leads me to the Light,
By which I see the Heav'nly goal
From dismal depths of Night.
 
 
Though Poverty attend my way
And sorrow fills my heart,
Thy Guidance will disaster stay,
So good and pure Thou art!
 
 
Thou, in the presence of my foes,
Bestoweth favors rare,
And giveth pleasure and repose
In answer to my prayer.
 
 
To such a Shepherd I will give
My everlasting love,
And glory in the Hope—to live
With Him, at last, Above.
 

FRIENDSHIP

 
True Friends are rare: who counts them by the score
Is blest indeed, for we have, seldom, more.
If we possess just one real, trusting friend
Who shares our troubles, loyal to the end;
Who, when we fall, will help us to our feet;
Who finds with us contentment most complete;
Whose pocket-book and heart are open thrown
Whether we need affection or a loan,
And makes no record of the favor done,
But gives, with equal pleasure, either one—
That's Friendship true! If I had twenty such,
With all their purses open to my touch,
And each disposed to "stake" me and forget
The circumstance and measure of the debt,
I'd soon be on the road to ease and plenty,
But wish I had such friendships more than twenty.
 

PARAMOUNT PROBLEMS

 
Shall Women vote? Shall Demon Rum survive
Or be, thru Woman Suffrage, flayed alive?
These are the questions that engross the nation:
Shall Women vote or be kept on probation?
Are they not gentle, honest, sweet and kind?
A single missing virtue we can't find,
And yet we say—"Stay home and can the cherries!
You're far too frail and fine for statecraft worries!
The Sacred Home for you! Just 'tend your chicks!
You'd soil your hands to mix in Politics!
And then there's scrubbing, cooking and a few
Odd jobs besides: you couldn't ballot too!"
But how absurd! Fair Woman, in her wrath,
Will make our future course a thorny path:
Unless we meet her fairly in these matters,
She'll tear our senseless arguments to tatters,
And rule both Home and State to suit herself,
Putting deceitful man upon the shelf.
As sure as death or taxes, day or night,
She'll have the vote without, or with a fight;
And those of us who counsel Peace, as best,
Should not oppose and put her to the test;
And when she gets the vote, by force or gift,
The clouds obscuring Temperance will lift;
For all the Wets will vanish, ev'ry one!
Evaporate like mists before the sun.
True, Women drink; it's foolish to deny it!
But not as men do—as a steady diet;
They'll take a punch, or sip a little claret,
But when it comes to liquor—they can't bear it.
And so we ask again—shall Women vote?
Shall men surrender to the petticoat
And give up all their freedom and their tipples
Just to return to Lacteal Life and Nipples?
The War is on! Nebraska bids defiance
To Rum Dispensers and the Booze Alliance:
Hereafter all our barley, wheat and corn
Will be quite unresponsive to the horn.
The essence of the grain will be tabooed
And ev'ry seed accounted for as food.
No more will Barleycorn assail our vitals
Or be the Leader in our Song Recitals:
No more will Liquor check our ardent thirst,
And so we'll go from bad, perhaps, to worst.
If we must eat, perforce, and never rum it,
What will befall the man who has to gum it;
Whose teeth are absent and who food eschews,
Drawing his daily nourishment from booze;
Who can't obtain a single drop of gin
To comfort and sustain the man within?
Pleading for drinks, unheeded he'll grow wheezy,
But he'll improve his breath if he'll Speak Easy.
The Drunkard's fate would be a dreadful warning,
Who, having "opened" Riley's place each morning
Found, one cold dawn, the foot-rail gone and read—
"Soft Drinks for Sale" where Schnapps was sold instead.
Picture his sorrow! See him pallid grow
When told the facts: a spectacle of woe!
Back to his wife he slinks: he couldn't face her!
Because he missed his usual "morning bracer."
The Place is sold: it's now a candy store
Where Schnapps will be dispensed with evermore.
Good-bye, Old Demijohn; Decanters, too!
His life will empty be—and so are you!
Where once the Canteen flourished 'neath our flag,
Now Prohibition flags the soldier's jag;
And where Josephus keeps his arid log
The water-pitcher has succeeded grog.
Some Commonwealths already have the pluck
To ban, humanely, those who chase the duck;
And other States have punished Rum enough
To have compassion on the boot-leg stuff.
Thus Prohibition grows: but so does wheat
And corn and rye: I wonder which will beat?
But what of Woman? Where's her rightful freedom?
They ought to have the vote, because we need 'em
To purge our land of drunkenness and crime
And save our striplings from the slough and slime.
Why shouldn't Women vote? Perhaps they may!
Should Drunkards or Illiterates say nay?
Could citizens of foreign birth refuse
To give our Native Daughters what they choose?
Our Native Sons with chivalry invoke
Fair play for women,—freedom from the yoke;
And shouldn't other Freemen rise in flocks
To help our Women win the Ballot Box?
The trouble lies, not here, but with the Bosses
Who trade in graft and deal in double crosses.
The sooner we eliminate this class
The quicker will full freedom come to pass.
But watch the Anti! Make her hold her tongue,
Or duck her in the pond, the geese among;
Or lock her in the booth, without a mirror,
Where she can't see herself and we can't hear her.
Thus, neck and neck, these two great questions lead:
Will men be equal to their Country's need?
If one Reform upon the other waits,
Speed Equal Suffrage to the White House gates,
And Prohibition (Farewell, Dear old Liquor!)
Will follow as the tape pursues the ticker!
But if, perchance, the Dry's should get a trimmin',
Smile, if you please,—but don't prohibit Women!
 

A REUNION

 
Once more, Good Friends, we're gathered 'round the board
To feel the joys of fellowship restored.
There's nothing like them! Friends can't be replaced,
Nor thoughts of them from Memory be effaced!
Of course we form new friendships, but I feel
That these, like old ones, are not staunch and real.
It takes long years to prove our friends, you know,—
Those who are steadfast in our weal or woe.
So here's to you, Miss Prim! and you, Miss Prude!
We wouldn't have you different if we could!
Two Roses rare you are, and sweet; I ween
You were not doomed to bloom and blush unseen.
I've seen your cheeks suffused with crimson hues;
(Dame Nature's make-up is the rouge you use!)
I've seen your lips in saucy challenge perked;
(But for your protests, they'd be overworked!)
I've seen your eyes with mischief filled and tears;
(But I could never pity you, My Dears!)
I've seen your breasts with agitation heave;
(Your hearts must be affected, I believe!)
I've seen your shapely forms pass in review
Before my lonely couch, in dreams of you,—
And what I haven't seen, some little bird
Has told me all about. Upon my word,
If what he says be true, what I have heard
To what I've seen, methinks, would be preferred.
Then here's to Friendship! What more potent force
Doth link mankind together? Love, of course,
Doth fetter us betimes, but Time must say
Whom we shall cherish, whom to cast away.
When Love and Friendship, heart and hand, are bound,
What more of Joy can compass us around?
So, Friends and Sweethearts, Comrades tried and true,
We pledge our love and loyalty to you!
 

THE CRUISE OF THE SQUIRREL

 
Somewhere, sometime, I've heard it said, or read
That Fools butt in where Angels fear to tread.
A single "Angel" with a Pack of Fools
Is not enough to change established rules;
And so, I think, the "Angel" in this case
Should bear, alone, the onus and disgrace,—
For Angels should know better than to swoop
Upon the Dove of Peace and fowl her coop.
The Good Ship Squirrel has left our shores behind
To measure human breath 'gainst Ocean Wind.
"Laden with Nuts" her clearance shows. Four Bells!
She's off! to fight for Peace with all those shells.
No Port, however, figures in her quest,
Her "papers" show,—and this is manifest!
 
 
The Dove of Peace, perched on the mizzen-top,
Hath disappointments sticking in her crop.
The peaceful bird is shy and very frail;
Can't stand the weight of salt upon her tail;
The War has made her nervous, and the roar
Of many cannon made the poor bird soar.
 
 
Up springs a storm! The Dove's white feathers show,
While Nuts are cracking on the deck below.
And then an iceberg looms against the sky,
But still the Dove is far too proud to fly;
But when, anon, a periscope appears
The Bird of Peace is overcome by fears,
And "beats it" to the iceberg's crystal crest,
Where she prepares to build her neutral nest.
 
 
The Submarine atop the billows now,
Stands by the Squirrel until she dips her bow
And sinks beneath the waves; then looks above
And takes a parting broadside at the Dove.
The "Angel" then, in Neptune's sky-machine
Ascendeth in a blaze of gasoline;
The Dove, marooned, broods over many things,
Nestling her poor cold feet beneath her wings.
 
 
Regenerate, the Angel has returned
From empyrean Flight, to Earth, and learned
(I think Saint Peter gave him sound advice!)
To keep the Pacifistic Germ on ice
Until a Luther, if there still remains
One decent man where Wilhelm Cæsar reigns,
Denounces all the crimes of Germany,
And proselytes to crush Autocracy.