Part 4

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.

JINGLES

Little Bo Peep Went fast to sleep; Losing her sheep. There were ninety and nine of these lambkins that fled When poor, little Bo was asleep in her bed; And when they returned they were _mutton_ instead. O, what a stew! 'Twixt me and yew What could Bo do?

O! Jack and Jill Went up the hill, Their pail to fill. The water was _running_: they didn't pursue, But filled up their growler with Double X Brew, And Jill, in a measure, was full, and Jack too. Both had a thirst: Jack's was the worst: He tumbled first.

Horner boy Jack Had the right knack; Cornered the snack. His fortune grew fast from that one Christmas plum; His profits on 'Change showed a marvelous sum, Till he soon had Financialdom under his thumb. O! what a wiz! Jack knew his biz: All now is his.

Good old King Cole, "Merry old Soul," Knew how to _bowl_. No high-balls were spared at his nocturnal spread, And the fumes of the liquor would strike in his head Till, knocked off his pins, he was set up in bed. Jackass or king Will have his fling: Naughty, Old Thing.

Old Lady Drew Lived in a shoe: Children there too. Their home was too cramped for a dozen or more, But others have suffered from tight shoes before, So the latch-string was always hung out on the door. To upper skies Good old sole flies, With all her ties.

The Drews and Jack Horner lived on the same street: Jack gambled with Hymen and Drew Marguerite, And love for his sole-mate affected his feet. There ne'er was a "comeback" to poor Jack and Jill; The King followed after them going "down hill," And Bo, left alone, is a sheepish maid still.

THE WEIGHT OF LOVE

I was sitting in the parlor With my Sweetheart on my knee, And the fireplace lights and shadows Silhouetted her and me.

Heavy grew she towards the morning, When the gold-fringed sunbeams leap: _She_ was wide awake as ever But my leg was fast asleep.

Flesh is weak and so I shifted My loved load, as best I could, From the numb knee to the other; From the leg of flesh to wood.

Then I felt my Sweetheart shiver, And I realized her state When she drew a white-ash sliver From the leg _articulate_.

DO IT!

Dare to do it! You'll not rue it If you save some Human Craft From the rocks where fierce gales blew it, Using Kindness for a raft.

O, dare to do! Be kind and true To the friends you make thru life; Then High Heaven will reward you With immunity from strife.

If a Lion Were a dyin', Would you go into his lair And attempt to soothe his cryin'? Do it! Do it, if you _dare_!

AMENITIES

The Parson tied the Hymen knot That made two halves a whole; The while a speculating what Would be his marriage toll.

The Groom, when he had kissed the Bride, Was taken with the chills: Her icy lips could not abide Osculatory thrills.

But soon his fever was effaced; His hand obeyed his will, And in the Parson's palm he placed A soiled One Dollar Bill.

"Anathema!" the preacher cried,-- "Thou reptile of the Earth!" The Groom replied--"Then take the Bride! I think it's all she's worth!"

"DANSER SUR UN VULCAN"

Now goeth forth the Swell elite, With patent leathers on his feet; With collar spotless, cuffs to suit, In truth bon-ton, from hat to boot.

A bootblack, with an eye to biz, With dirty hands and ugly phiz, Beholds him as he goes, and throws Banana peels beneath his toes.

Along the pave Adonis trips; He steps upon the peel, and slips Into the juicy gutter: His eyes are filled with fire and ire, But water, muck and mire conspire To drown the words he'd utter.

L'ENVOI

Go where you will, the stars will _shine_, And so will Tony, I opine: But O! the stars Adonis spied When he went "out," a sewerside.

AT THE BULGING UDDER TIME

Years have passed since I, an urchin, Drove the Cow, so sleek and prime, Down the path, where crows were perchin' At the Bulging Udder Time.

Those were days well worth one's living, When I watched, with joy sublime, What the generous Cow was giving At the Bulging Udder Time.

Later on, when we grew older, Father gave us each a dime-- Me and Bill--to milk and _hold_ her, At the Bulging Udder Time:

But, alas! we came to grieving: Bill was kicked and smeared with grime, And the Cow boo-booed on leaving-- "Come around some _udder_ time!"

VAGARIES

The husky Corn has pushed ahead with silken locks atop; O, Brother, ain't it shocking? And Colonels are expecting quite a bumper Bourbon crop-- Saloonward they are flocking! But when they strip the ears and find the wasteful worms surrounding, 'Twill make the "moonshine" dimmer; For ev'ry still has coils of worms illicitly abounding Where sour-mash mixtures simmer. The hillside Stills their fragrance breathe, and wood birds are a sounding; My jug is in the hollow: So fill it up, but watch your step and Secret Service hounding! The scent is sweet to follow.

The Cotton Bolls are bursting forth with weevils in the sepals; Come, Dinah, get to picking! And rush the staple to the mart to clothe the naked peoples! Or you will get a licking! The baleful Gins are all prepared to do the fibre-squeezing: Get busy, Massa Willie! And set the weevils back a bit, and save the folks from freezing! It's getting powerful chilly! You Pickaninnies hustle now, and do the proper bagging! The possum's cooking, Honey! And when the work is thru we'll do our banjo stunts, and ragging And get our "Cakewalk" money.

A SHATTERED ROMANCE

My heart is aflame with a love that enslaves My passion for thee is afire; My soul is athirst for the love that it craves, And you are the one I admire.

Pray speak, Dear! and say your affections are mine, And all the sweet charms you possess; Then I will surrender my wishes to thine And be but thy slave, I confess.

When she answered, at length, I felt very sure I'd pleaded my cause quite enough; "You're the one man on earth I _couldn't endure_, So cut out that comedy stuff!"

THE MILKY WAY

I went to school, like any lad, And learned to read and write: With pencil, books and writing-pad I grew quite erudite.

Promoted soon, my Teacher thought I would some day, be great; And so painstakingly he taught Me how to conjugate.

And talked to me about the Moon, Of Venus, Saturn, Mars, Till I was rated, very soon, Authority on Stars.

A graduate, I searched the skies For orbs unknown before, Determined that I'd specialize In Astronomic lore:

But how to buy a telescope And all the charts required? An _attick_ was my only hope Of all the things desired:

And so I compromised and bought Binoculars and case, And ev'ry night the Stars I sought At Daly's Burlesque Place.

The one, bright, meteoric Flame In all that stellar group, Soon _fell for me_; then took my name And quit the Burlesque Troupe.

But I'm eclipsed! the Satellite That twinkles in the crib, Keeps Mother _pinning_, day and night, A didy or a bib.

THE LOGOTHETE

"Beware the dog!" Beware the Logothete! The Octoped with elephantine feet: (I mean by this--with the _big understanding_; The Byzantine Pup of Theodore's branding.) A thousand years chained to Hellespont's brink, He never once whimpered or lapped up a drink. Hydrophobia? No! just aphasia, 'Cause he couldn't cross over to Asia.

The old Logothete is the Watch Dog of State: He feeds upon figures (he'll cipher an eight!) And starts ev'ry meal with a twelve or sixteen, Then multiplies units to munch on between. Voracity thus as an integer stands For his diurnal gorge on multiplicands. Numerical strength makes the Logothete thrive, And fractions he dotes on--just eats 'em alive!

He lashes his tail by Marmora's flood, But eats from the hand of Sultan Ahmud; A collar of gold, set with aquamarines, Makes him the envy of Justin's near-queens; His Kennel-Kiosque (the hyphen's germane!) Rivals the harems of Constantine's reign. Innocuous? No! nor yet desuetude, For he daily absorbs whole columns of food.

His teeth are as sharp as the Damaskeene blade That severed the chains on the Macedon maid; And as keen as the knife avenging the dame Who was sold to the Sheik in Mesopotame. But the point that I make--no whimper or yelp Had ever been voiced by this Logothete whelp Until Archæologists, searching the grounds, Unearthed dogmatisms and bitumen sounds Of the highest known pitch, resembling a whine Or unrav'ling snarls of the Octopedine. And thus they've exploded the silence complete Tradition ascribes to the old Logothete[1]-- And so, in unleashing this Byzantine Pup, They merit grave censure for _digging things up_.

[1] From _Logos_ (word) and _Thete_ (Theodore)--The word of Theodore.

THE PRICE OF PEACE

There's music in the Eagle's shriek; There's ditto in the Lion's roar, But discord marks the Bolshevik Because the Bear doth growl no more.

The Dogs of War are out of tune,-- No harmony doth move the critters: Unless they cease their fighting soon The wounded whelps will have no litters.

Jerusalem! the Turk is spent! The bagpipes took his breath, I think. The Crescent now is badly bent, And Allah's cause is on the blink.

The Bulgar too has shot his bolt, And soon will quit--the poor pariah! For now there's rumor of revolt In Ananias and Sofia.

The Hun is playing with the Slav-- The Kremlin Mouse and Potsdam Cat; But Cossack, too, can smear the salve, And 'twixt them twain doth Peace fall flat.

Some day the Dove of Peace will swoop With long, befigured _bill_, and put it Against the Vulture-Kultur coop And make the Prussian Junkers _foot it_.

MEN HAD HORNS THEN

Newspaper Item, Athens, Pa., July 29: The archaeologists who are traversing the Susquehanna River Valley, visiting sites of Indian villages and digging up aborigines and other relics, are said to have made a most astounding discovery on the Murray farm, near here, in finding the bones of sixty-eight pre-historic men. The average height of these men when their skeletons were assembled was seven feet, while many were much taller. Additional evidence of their gigantic size is found in the massive stone battle axes in their graves. The average age of these men is said to have been from thirty to forty. Another amazing point of this discovery is the allegation that "perfectly formed skulls were found from which horns grew straight out from the head."

The Homestead of Satan, they say, has been found Near Athens, P. A., in a hole in the ground; And people are flocking from Athens and Sayre To view the remains of their ancestors there.

When Satan established himself in this zone He found it distasteful to live all alone; So he went to Towanda in quest of a bride, And then tilled the soil till his seed multiplied.

So scores of young Devils at Murray's were born That measured five cubits between hoof and horn. Each one was equipped with a tail and two wings, And _asbestos garments_ at Nick's Sulphur Springs.

And that's why you find all their skeletons here In good preservation: but isn't it queer That Devils at Athens, the place of their birth, Were the sole legatees of Hell upon Earth?

But Devils, like men, reach the ends of their ropes, And have disappointments and unfulfilled hopes,-- So Satan discovered, too late we are told, The climate at Murray's was too beastly cold.

His imps all contracted pneumonia and died; So he buried them here in the Pit, side by side, Near Athens, P. A., by the River Chemung, Where they've been unmolested till now, and unsung.

And there their bones bleached, in the Sulphuric Pits, Until Archæologists came with their kits And made excavations, not thinking of harm, But raising the devil at Rube Murray's Farm.

Now Satan's _exposed_ and his ossified get, (A few yet remain in the flesh, I regret!) And Murray of Athens is living, I wot On skeletons dug from this Hell-enic spot.

SUB ROSA

The Busy Bee, to gather honey, goes Touching the clover bloom and then the rose; An easy prey, the clover blossom yields Its treasures garnered from the fragrant fields; But all the sweetness that the rose adorns, Protected is from theft by jealous thorns. The Bee, ergo, in quest the flowers among, Gets sometimes honey and gets sometimes _stung_.

WHITMANESQUE

The snow is falling on the hemlock boughs: Courage, Comrade, Spring will come again! The birds are leaving the evergreen trees, And that's why they are not deciduous. O, Winter! I shake thy icy hand, And, shaking, shovel the beautiful snow: But what shall I do with such an abundance? It is already piled high in my neighbor's yard, And he is watching me from his attic window. And yet more snow! How pure you seem tho' falling!

AN APEOLOGY

This is the Ape, made famous, you'll agree, By Darwin's Evolution Theory. His destiny fulfilled, he rests at ease With tribal Apes, Baboons and Chimpanzees; Preferring, so, to recreation find, Than with his tailless counterpart, Mankind, A doubtful branch of his posterity: And makes a _monkey_, thus, of you and me.

THE BUG

This is the Bug, unable to resist The blandishments of Entomologist. He soon succumbs to net or trap or pin And fills his place the _cabinet_ within. A volume then explains his habits, source, And all his secrets and his aims of course; Which leads me to conclude, when facts are dug, The Man of Science is the biggest "Bug."

WAKE, MY LOVE!

Darling, I my vigil keep Close beside you, while you sleep. Let the Dream of Love abide! Cupid will not be denied; For he whispers to you now, And prints kisses on your brow; While his velvet finger tips Hush the protest on your lips. Wake, My Love! And do not chide Cupid pleading by your side!