CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO--The History of the Rum Demon Concluded--Prohibition

Is Making a Free Thinker of the Old Soak

ANOTHER thing that going without barrooms is doing for this country is it is destroying Home Life.

It is pretty hard to get along with your wife after you have been married to her for twenty or thirty years and kind of settle down and realize you are going to be married to her as long as she lives for better or for worse unless something happens which it seldom does.

Not that you don't kind of like her and you know she kind of likes you but the thing is that her and you is apt to treat each other mean now and then because you get to thinking what a good time you could have if you didn't have to turn in so much of your money to making a home run smooth and you know even if you do row with each other you will make up again and you get to kind of looking forward to the rows because anyhow that is a change.

But sometimes you carry them rows too far and then you don't know how to get your Home Life running right again because she is always too stubborn to give in and you won't be the first one to give in because you know she is wrong.

But when there was liquor to be had in plenty it was easier to make up after one of them rows and Home Life went along smoother.

You would get up in the morning and she would say to you, would you have a boiled egg for breakfast or a fried, and you would say hades what an idea. Can't you never think of anything but eggs for breakfast. And she would say yesterday I didn't have eggs and you was sore because you wanted eggs. You would say just because I wanted eggs yesterday is that any sign I want them every day of my life till death do us part. I was only asking what you wanted she would say.

I will go where I can get what I want, you would say. I will eat my breakfast at a restaurant this morning and maybe I can keep them from shoving eggs in front of me when I don't ask for eggs. The trouble with your stomach is not what you put into it in the morning, she would say, but what you put into it the night before. The trouble with my stomach, you would say, is that I am worried to death and worked to death all the time trying to keep this house running and it gives me the dis-pepsy. It is the liquor gives you dispepsy she would say.

If it wasn't for a little stimulant in my stomach, like the Good Book says, you tell her, my dispepsy wouldn't let me digest anything at all and I would starve to death and the mortgage on the house would be foreclosed and you would go to the old woman's home. Whose money pays the interest on that mortgage she would say. Whose? you would say. Mine, she would say. You wouldn't have any money you tell her, if you paid me back what your relations has borrowed of me.

Well, one word leads to another, and you go off without any breakfast, for you see her taking the Bible down to set and read it, and when she sets and reads the Bible you know she is reading it against you and it gets you madder and madder.

And in the old days when there was barrooms you would go into one still feeling mad and say Ed, mix me one of the old-fashioned whiskey cocktails and don't put too much orange and that kind of damned garbage into it, I want the kick.

No sooner said than done.

And after a couple of them you would say, well after all, the Old Woman means well, I wonder if I didn't treat her a little mean this morning I orter call her up on the telephone and give her a jolly.

And then you would think of her relations that you hate and get mad at her again on account of always sticking up for them, and say, Ed, that don't set so well, let's try a whiskey sour.

And you would meet a friend and have another with him, and pretty soon eat some breakfast and think how, after all, it was eggs you was eating for breakfast and they wasn't cooked no ways as good as the old woman would of poached them for you on toast if you hadn't been so darned mean to her.

And your friend would say his old woman blowed him up for coming home pickled.

And you would have another drink and say that was one thing your old woman never done to you. My old woman has got some sense, you would say to him, she knows how a man feels about taking a drink, and she never blows me up.

And you would set and brag about your old woman and you had never had a cross word between you in thirty years. And then he would begin to brag about his old woman, too.

And pretty soon you would say to yourself you better go to the phone and call her up. She has her mean streaks all right, but who knows, she may have been right this morning after all, and you take another drink and get her on the telephone, and give her a chance to say how sorry she was about the way she treated you that morning and maybe you go and pay an installment on a new carpet sweeper for her.

Well, it was that way in the old days. Liquor kept your Home Life running along o. k. You would get mad with your wife and then you would get sorry for her and give her an excuse to make up with you again.

But now, with no chance to get a drink when I am away from home if I treat the Old Woman mean in the morning I don't give her a chance to get on my good side again. And I can see sometimes that it is breaking her heart.

That's what prohibition is doing to this country. It is breaking the women's hearts and it is breaking up the Home Life on every hand.

What is going to become of a country where all the Home Life is broke up?

And what is going to become of the children if there ain't any Home Life running along smooth any more?

These Prohibitionists that is so darned smart never thought of that I guess when they put that Eighteenth Commandment across onto us.

Whenever I think of all them women's hearts that is breaking and all that Home Life that is going plumb to the dogs all on account of the barrooms being closed up it well-nigh makes a free thinker out of me.

I don't claim to be a church man, but I never was a free thinker before, neither. But all the sorrow that is going on in the world on account of them barrooms being closed is making a free thinker of me.

HAIL AND FAREWELL

I--A LAST DRINK

To George McDaniel

[Ill 0103]

Hail! Barleycorn... they said you weren't Nice! Salve! You bum, and Vale! Hail! Farewell! Your feet, the Prohis say, go down to Hell; You led men into Poker, Fights and Dice, You filled the world with Murder, Lust and Lice, You made a Bar Fly of the Howling Swell, You bought the blood that deep-dyed bandits sell-- You might lead one in time, I fear, to Vice!

Old blear-eyed mutt, beloved and accurst! Before you go, a song for old sake's sake; A song memorial to the days and nights When I companioned with the Dipsas Snake And bared my throat unto his febrous bites, Quenching a thirst to gain a greater thirst.

II--IN THE OLD DAYS

To Paul Thompson

Liquor there is, but, oh! the Bar is gone! The long Brass Rail above the Sawdust Floor, The gay Hot Dog, the gleaming Cuspidore, The bright, brave Nose that brave, bright lights shone on, The jocund Barkeep, Ed or A1 or John, The ribald jest I loved, the answering roar That jangled the glasses, shook the swinging door--- Liquor there is, but these delights are done! In the old days when bubbles winked at me, In the glad days when I was steeped in Rum, I played the Prospero to fantasy, I drank, and bade my Ariel fancies come.” But I have lost my ancient wizardry And mine old self, my lyric self, is dumb.

III--A DIPSEY CHANTEY

To Ned Leamy

[Ill 0106]

Ho! Heave the anchor! Heave! Fetch her up! Twist! with the corkscrews! Steward, lend a hand! Let her prance out to sea like a frolic-footed pup, For the ship is full of liquor, and to hell with the land! Ghosts from the ocean abysses, clambering, clamour- ing, come; Climb to our decks and roar: “Broach us a puncheon of rum! We are scaly with salt and sand; we've had nothing but water to swallow-- Stave in a hogshead of rum! Let us roll in the scuppers and wallow!”

Heh! Splice the main-brace! Ho! She smells the gale! The shipper walks the bridge with a bottle to his eye; She rollicks with her boilers full of good Bass Ale-- By the timber peg of Silver, the sea shall not go dry! We have raxed 'em out of the deep, they follow through shine and fog, Phantoms of ancient mariners, lured by the reek of our grog; Noah and Hawkins and Kidd, up from the green abysses, And there, in a wine-stained galley, the ghost of great Ulysses! Eric the Red in a whale-boat, and with him, cheek by jowl, Silver begging a drain, God bless his wicked soul! Ho! How she snorts! Hey! Hear her snore! The wind slaps her nostrils, she hiccoughs for her breath! Steward, a corkscrew! You poor fish ashore, By the bones of Reuben Ranzo, you can choke to death! With eyes of the darting witch-fire, like mist the poor ghosts come, And an anguished wind from the mist bellows and whines for Rum-- They have been thirsty so long! Let us be good fellows still, And open a hundred casks and let 'em wallow and swill! Quick! With a corkscrew! Oh, damn the wheel! The captain's in his hunk, with a bottle to his eye! The engineer is stoking with Scotch and lemon 'peel! By Davy Jones's locker, the sea shall not go dry!

IV--A CERTAIN CLUB

To Winfield Moody

Ah, dead and done! Forever dead and done The mellow dusks, the friendly dusks and dim, When Charley shook the cocktails up, or Tim--? Gone are ten thousand gleaming moments, gone Like fireflies twinkling toward oblivion! Ah, how the bubbles used to leap and swim, Breaking in laughter round the goblet's brim, When Walter pulled a cork for us, or John! I have seen ghosts of men I never knew,-- Great, gracious souls, the golden hearts of earth-- Look from the shadows in those rooms we love, Living a wistful instant in our mirth; I have seen Jefferson smile down at Drew, And Booth pause, musing, on the stair above.

V--A TEMPERANCE TRACT

To Bob Dean

Cocktails are the little brooms That whiskey way your will-power! A dark disease is Bright's disease, And will not yield to pill-power. Some may upon red rums descant Who never did decant rums, But I have eaten bitter bread Where bitters breed their tantrums. The fool will give his life to booze, The wiser man taboos that, And I'm a sad Budweiser man Than when I used to ooze that. I owned a bank, and for a fad I cultivated two lips; If I had owned the mint itself 'Twould all have gone for juleps. Mumm's extra dry makes some men grow As dry as any mummy, But when I'm tight I loosen up-- A punch, and I am chummy. Except when I swore off in Lent With borrowers I mingled; They'd make my pockets cease to clink Whenever I was jingled. But though I drank with scarce a check My drafts saved people trouble, For I would often pay dubs twice Because I saw 'em double. O, cognac is a fearful drink To brandy man with shame, O! He will, that drinks diluted gin, Die looted of good name, O! I wined till I began to ail, And then I whined with aleing, Until to crown the woes I cite I found my eyesight failing. “Sir, fits will come,” my doctor warned, “Surfeits will bloat the mind, sir!” I laughed and took my glasses off And said, “I'll go it blind, sir!” Champagnes and real incider me Set my high spirits flagon; Still with gay dogs I played the wag, Deriding of the wagon. My tongue was like a cotton bale, All whitish from the gin, sir-- The doctor said “No tongue can state The state your tongue is in, sir!” “With so much rye and corn you cope, Your crowd are cornucopers-- How can earth be Utopia When peopled by you topers?” But still I dodged from fête to fête, Still followed by my fate, O! Still floating loans and liquids till My bank did liquidate, O! Buns use up dough; what my fun did, Were it refunded one day, Would fund the Banks of Newfoundland And float the Bay of Fundy. Don't hitch your wagon to a star Upon the brandy bottle; If you your neck to nectar ope Your hope 'twill surely throttle.

VI--A VISION IN THE NIGHT

To Grant Rice

Beyond Arcturus, in a peevish wind, I met a rumpled devil beating home. “And whence, poor Fiend,” I challenged, “hast thou come With ragged plumage ravelled out behind And splintered teeth and lamps all blear and blind? What Fate hath bent a skillet o'er thy dome?” He sighed, and in that sigh I read a tome Of bleeding sorrows and an aching mind. “Rough Stuff,” he moaned, “was what I got for mine! It was fierce Virtue put me on the bum, Trampled my slats and wronged my winsome face-- Once I was loved and called the Angel Wine! Kicked hellward now, and hurtling out through space, I am known only as the Demon Rum!”

VII--THE LAST CASE OF GIN

To Loren Palmer

The Tullywub is singing by the Willywinkle's grotto His passionate devotion, though he knows he hadn't ought to, And she wipes away a teardrop with a little furtive fin; She is fluttered, but she's frightened by his outburst of emotion In their somewhat formal corner of a rather proper ocean-- And I can understand 'em, for I've got a crate of gin. Interpretative theses on the psychochemic state Induced in the batrachia by fear or love or hate I find are rather easy since I've opened up the crate, And I'm gonna be a scientist by morning. A Willywinkle's seldom a sprightly thing or elfish, But morally she's rigid as the most exclusive shell- fish;

She cans her rash admirer, but she cans him with a sigh! An analytic novel might be reared upon the basis Of a very earnest study of the looks upon their faces And their brave renunciation when they sobbed and said good-by. I claim that the transmission of their fortitude and pain To succeeding generations will improve the moral strain Of the species here considered and their loss result in gain; And I wish I had some Angostura Bitters! I have a strong impression of the immanence of morals In this quite extensive cosmos, from castor beans to corals, And Science and Religion, I will tell the world, are one; I should prove it, gentle reader, had we leisure time before us, I should prove it or expire in the act of hurling Taurus-- I wonder where the dickens has that silly corkscrew gone? I find, as I grow older, the pert Subliminal Keeps butting in to chatter with egoistic gall: Romance I meditated; this isn't that at all-- But anyhow I have some limes and siphons!

VIII--CROWNED SINGERS

To Charley Bayne

Liquor there is . . . but we knew happier days! When jug by jowl in many a tavern booth We sat and glimpsed the world's ulterior truth, And followed life through all its secret ways-- What light flashed up on us in golden rays Out of the booze, to blend with fire of youth! Crowned singers, we! although, forsooth, The Dipsas Snake still rustled in our bays. Hail, Rum! Sweet Demon of my wastrel years! Farewell, old mellow Angel, ripe with Vice! Dreamers and singers, cronies, let us drink A stirrup-cup of laughter and of tears! Omar and Falstaff, both are on the blink-- The Bitter People say they are not Nice!

IX--DOWN IN A WINE VAULT

To Harold Gould

[Ill 0118]

Down in a wine vault underneath the city Two old men were sitting; they were drinking booze. Torn were their garments, hair and beards were gritty; One had an overcoat but hardly any shoes. Overhead the street cars through the streets were running Filled with happy people going home to Christmas; In the Adirondacks the hunters all were gunning, Big ships were sailing down by the Isthmus. In came a Little Tot for to kiss her granny, Such a little totty she could scarcely tottle, Saying, “Kiss me, Grandpa! Kiss your little Nanny!” But the old man beaned her with a whiskey bottle! Outside the snowflakes began for to flutter, Far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen, Not another word did Angel Nanny utter. Her grandsire chuckled and pledged the Whiskey Demon! Up spake the second man; he was worn and weary, Tears washed his face, which otherwise was pasty; “She loved her parents, who commuted on the Erie; Brother, I'm afraid you struck a trifle hasty! “She came to see you, all her pretty duds on, Bringing Christmas posies from her mother's garden, Riding in the tunnel underneath the Hudson; Brother, was it Rum caused your heart to harden?” Up spake the first man, “Here I sits a thinking How the country's drifting to a sad condition; Here I sits a dreaming, here I sits a drinking, Here I sits a dreading, dreading prohibition, “When in comes Nanny, my little daughter's daughter; Me she has been begging ever since October For to sign the pledge! It's ended now in slaughter-- I never had the courage when she caught me sober! “All around the world little tots are begging Grandpas and daddies for to quit their lushing. Reformers eggs 'em on. I am tired of egging! Tired of being cowed, cowering and blushing! “I struck for freedom! I'm a man of mettle! Though I never would 'a' done it had I not been drinking-- From Athabasca south to Popocatapetl We must strike for freedom, quit our shrinking!” Said the second old man, “I beg your pardon! Brother, please forgive me, my words were hasty! I get your viewpoint, our hearts must harden! Try this ale, it is bitter, brown and tasty.” Said the first old man, “Hear me sobbing. “Poor little Nanny, she's gone to Himmel. Principle must conquer, though hearts be throbbing! Just curl your lip around this kimmel!” Down in a wine vault underneath the city They sat drinking while the snow was falling, Wicked old men with scarcely any pity-- The moral of my tale is quite appalling!

X--ANACREON

To Ned Ranck

In the sunless land where thou art gone, The shadowy realm of Proserpine, Hast wine to drink, Anacreon? Still hast thy lute its laughing tone, Still do thy nymphs the ivy twine, In the sunless land where thou art gone? A Bacchus on a reeling throne, Thy temples bound with trailing vine, Hast wine to drink, Anacreon? From cool deep caves of delved stone, Do slaves still fetch thee Samian wine, In the sunless land where thou art gone? Or is a cup's mere semblance shown, Then snatched from those parch'd lips of thine?--- Hast wine to drink, Anacreon?

Like Tantalus dost thou make moan, Plagued by a mockery malign? In the sunless land where thou art gone Hast wine to drink, Anacreon?

XI--THERE WERE GIANTS IN THE OLD DAYS

To George Van Slyke

Gog was a giant, Likewise so was Magog;-- Gog says, “It's Christmas, Please pass the Egg-nog!” Gurgle! Gurgle! Gurgle! Glug! Glug! Glug! Gog says to Magog, “It is full of Nutmeg,-- Guzzle! Guzzle! Guzzle! Glog! Glog! Glog!” Magog says to Gog, “Have some Haig and Haig!” Gargle! Gargle! Gargle! Grog! Grog! Grog!” Gog says to Magog, “Your eyes are all a-goggle! You are all agog!” Magog says to Gog, “Your feet wiggle-woggle,

You're gigglish as a gargoyle And logey as a log!” Gog says to Magog, “I'm as gleg as a grig! Gurgle! Gurgle! Gurgle! Glug! Glug! Glug!” Magog says to Gog, “I'm jolly as a polly-- Wiggle--waggle--wog That's turning to a froggle, A friggle--fraggle--frog! Guggle! Guggle! Guggle! Glog! Glog! Glog!” And Gog filled his noggin, And Magog his mug,-- Magog was a giant, Likewise so was Gog; On New Year's morning Both were on their legs, And sat down to breakfast And ordered ham and eggs!

XII--IN AN OLD-TIME TAVERN BOOTH

To Ben De Casseres

Drinking, I doze, and see the gods go by; They wave to me the hand of comradeship, For I am one with them, and at my lip The cup of wisdom bubbles ... up the sky A blur of moondust drifts to dull mine eye, But through the veil my romping visions slip To dance among the careless stars, outstrip The racing planets where they swoop and fly, And then . . . from somewhere east of Mars a keen Thin wind whines for a Dime; I drop one in A sad Salvation Army tambourine And hear a weary homily on Sin . . . “Sister,” I say, “you're right, and yet the Truth Sometimes sits near me in this tavern booth.”

XIII--THE OLD BRASS RAILING

To Charley Still

Our minds are schooled to grief and dearth, Our lips, too, are aware, But our feet still seek a railing When a railing isn't there. I went into a druggist's shop To get some stamps and soap,-- My feet rose up in spite of me And pawed the air with hope. I know that neither East nor West, And neither North nor South, Shall rise a cloud of joy to shed Its dampness on my drouth,--. I know that neither here nor there, When winds blow to and fro, Shall any friendly odours find The nose they used to know,--

[Ill 0127]

No stein shall greet my straining eyes, No matter how they blink, Mine ears shall never hear again The highball glasses clink,-- There is not anywhere a jug To cuddle with my wrist,-- But my habituated foot Remains an optimist! It lifts itself, it curls itself, It feels the empty air, It seeks a long brass railing, And the railing isn't there! I do not seek for sympathy For stomach nor for throat, I never liked my liver much-- 'T is such a sulky goat!-- I do not seek your pity for My writhen tongue and wried, I do not ask your tears because My lips are shrunk and dried,-- But, oh! my foot! My cheated foot! My foot that lives in hope! It is a piteous sight to see It lift itself and grope! I look at it, I talk to it, I lesson it and plead, But with a humble cheerfulness, That makes my heart to bleed, It lifts itself, it curls itself, It searches through the air, It seeks a long brass railing, And the railing isn't there! I carried it to church one day-- O foot so fond and frail! I had to drag it forth in haste: It grabbed the chancel rail. My heart is all resigned and calm, So, likewise, is my soul, But my habituated foot Is quite beyond control! An escalator on the Ell Began its upward trip, My foot reached up and clutched the rail And crushed it in its grip. It grabs the headboard of my bed With such determined clasp That I'm compelled to scald the thing To make it loose its grasp. Sometimes it leaps to clutch the curb When I walk down the street-- Oh, how I suffer for the hope That lives within my feet! Myself, I can endure the drouth With stoic calm, and prayer-- But my feet still seek a railing When a railing isn't there.

XIV--ONCE YOUTH WAS MINE

To Frank Stanton

Once the wild raptures and the beating wings Of Song were mine, the sun, the climbing flight; The wind's great fellowship upon the height. . . . Once Youth was mine, and the young heart that sings! But now the little things, the trivial things, Beat down my spirit with their leagued might . . . Could I, within some friendly Dive to-night, Meet the Old Gang, 'twould make me young, by jings! As the mad lark rises, drunk with joy and sun, When morning bends above the dewy meadow, And his clear call proclaims: “The day is won!” Over a hurried rout of driven shadow, So should I rise and sing, had I a Bun. O would that we were soused together, Kiddo!

XV--IN A TAVERN BOOTH

To Bob Lillard

Out of my forehead now the long thoughts reach In level rays that melt the Pleiades, Which, melting, somehow smell like toasted cheese . . . I know Life's secret now, but have no speech To utter it: indeed, small wish to teach My truths to trivial planets such as these Whereon the populations drone like bees That have no honey-gift, each stinging each . . . And yet I will speak, too!... the slow words come With pain out of my deeps of ecstasy, Burst from my soul as from a beaten drum In a hoarse pulse of sound . . . But hark to me! “Life's secret is that all things cool somewhat Like golden bucks”...but, somehow, that seems rot.

XVI--AN ENGAGEMENT

To Kit Morley

There is a place, not far from Gissing Street, In Paradise, where one can dream and laugh You go through Shelley Lane, striking your staff Upon the cobbles, turn with eager feet Down Benêt Place, and there you are! I'll meet You, Christopher, and we shall quarrel and quaff Our pewter tankards full of Shandygaff, And eat and eat and eat and eat and eat! And must we die first? Well, it's worth the trouble I shall go first, because I'm old and gray, And permanently I'll reserve a booth-- And when you come, no doubt I'll see you double, And as you land from Charon's skiff I'll say: “Here, kid, taste this! Roll this upon your tooth!'

XVII--THE BATTLE OF THE KEYHOLES

To Jimmy Farnsworth

The keyholes to the right of me Were dancing of a jig, The keyholes to the left of me Were merry as a grig, The keyholes right before my face Were drunk and winked at me, And I stood there alone--alone!-- With one small key.

They frightened me, they daunted me; I turned back to the stair, And faced nine keyholes pale and stern That lay in ambush there. Six keyholes on the ceiling sat, Eight keyholes on the door, And seven saddened keyholes lay Hiccoughing on the floor.

I crawled through one, I crawled through two, I crawled through keyholes three-- And then I saw a vistaed mile Of keyholes waiting me!-- “I will not crawl another yard Through keyholes, though I die!”-- Oh, when my fighting blood is up A Turk am.

They leapt at me, they flew at me, They whistled as they came, They gritted of their gleaming teeth, They stung and spurted flame; I put my back against the floor And fought 'em gallantly--? But what could anybody do With one small key?

Keyholes at the front of me, And keyholes on the flank, And as they rushed at me I smelled The liquor that they drank; Keyholes on my spinal cord, And keyholes in my hair-- And with a “Heave together, boys!” They rolled me down the stair.

It bumped me some, it bent me some, It broke a nose or two, And when the milkman came, he said: “What Kaiser Belgiumed you?” I says to him: “It might have been The same with you as me If you like me had had to fight A gang of keyholes all last night With one small key!”

XVIII--IN A TAVERN BOOTH

To Sam McCoy

I thought a Sun pursued; through endless space I fled the following thunder of his feet; Snorting he came, his breath a withering heat, Blown soot of cindered comets freakt his face; My hide caught fire and crackled with the pace, My burning heart with jets of anguish beat; Flaming I leapt, in flame leapt on the fleet And savage star . . . We slashed our fiery trace Ten constellations broad in screaming red Across the startled purple of the night; A word tremendous clove mine ears and head, A great arm fell and stripped my wings of flight: “Hey, Mister, pay your check!” a brute voice said. It was a red-haired barkeep known as Ed.

XIX--YEARNINGS AND MEMORIES

To Jimmy Fisher

Liquor there is--but how I miss the Bar! I miss a certain attitude of mind, Congenial, which I seek but never find Except beneath the golden triple star Which from the brandy bottle shines afar. I miss a type of jest that was designed For roaring barrooms warmed with booze, and kind-- Good Gawd! how coarse and low my real tastes are. I miss an ambling, splay-foot waiter's beak, Which like some red peninsula of hell Glowed through the humming barroom's smoky reek-- I miss the lies I used to hear men tell Over the telephone to waiting wives-- What sweet aromas had these joyous lives!

XX--DO YOU REMEMBER?

To Harry Dixey

Do you remember that first Morning Drink When Ed would smile and say, “What shall it be?” “Would you advise a Gin Fizz, Ed, for me?” “It is too early for a Fizz, I think.” “And would an Absinthe put me on the blink, I wonder, Ed?”--“Absinthe would not agree This morning, sir.”--“Then what's your recipe?” “A bland Club Cocktail, delicate and pink!” O kindly Barkeeps that have raised me up From morning glooms and made me live again, Where are ye now, and where your wizardry? As dead as great Ulysses' faithful pup! As dead as Babylon and James G. Blaine! As dead as Gyp the Blood and Nineveh!

XXI--AND YOU MAY KECALL THIS

To Charley Edson

--“I wanchya meeta 'nol' 'nol frien' o' mine!” --” Umgladdameecha! Bill's frien's my frien's, too!” --“Thish frien' besh frien'! I gotto open wine!” --“You gotto le' me buy thish drink f'r you!” --“I gotto buy thish drink f'r 'nol' 'nol' frien'!” --“Now, lishen, Jim! You gonna love thish lad!” --“Billsh friensh is my friensh to th' bitter en'!” --“Now, lishen, Jim! thish besh frien' ever had!” Honest, hardworking drunkards! Hour by hour They toiled on at their chosen task until They bent beneath the burdens that they bore, They bent and swayed, sustained but by the power, Each one, of his Indomitable Will, Which ever bade him conquer Just One More.

XXII--TRUE, BUT WHAT OF IT?

To Gilbert Gabriel

Old Demon Rum, they say you ruined homes, Bashing the piteous Wife betwixt her eyes. Stabbing Aunt Tildy with her own hair-combs, And teaching your young offspring stealth and lies Angel! they say that one night, lost to grace, You filched the infant's coral from her crib, Hocked it, and blew the loot at Leery's Place- Then strangled Baby Sister in her bib Because it purchased only sixteen beers! Demon! they say you used to cut up rough, Sowing the earth with poverty and tears-- And I believe it readily enough! I do admit your crimes as charged above, But, Angel! crime can never kill my love!

XXIII--A SUMMER DAY DREAM

To Foster Follett

If there were many miles of me How I would love to trail My length along the cooling sea Above the brown sea kale. Were there five thousand feet of me Instead of five feet four, A thousand times as cool I'd be Swimming from shore to shore. And when I saw a brewery Upon some cape or isle I'd crawl out of the dripping sea And greet it with a smile. Then all my lovely coils I'd wrap Around that brewery, And when I'd squeezed out every drap Slide back into the sea.

XXIV--ON SWEARING OFF AGAIN

To Dan Carey

[Ill 0144]

Barleycorn, my jo John! They say that we must part! 'Twill mend my stomach, maybe, But, O! it breaks my heart! I hoped that we should grow old Cheek by jowl together, Boozing by the fireside Through the wintry weather;-- With white hair and red face, Full of dreams and liquor, Watching from an armchair The firelight flicker;--

But Barleycorn, my jo John, Fare ye well forever!-- The preachers have my soul, John, The doctors have my liver! And I shall have an old age Dry and dull as virtue-- But never think, my dear friend, I'm happy to desert you! Barleycorn, my jo John! To think that we should part--. They say 'twill save my eyesight, But, O; it breaks my heart!

XXV--AFTER SEVERAL HIGHBALLS

To Clive Weed

I saw three roses on the wall, Three red, red roses on the wall, Repeated in a pattern: The first, I Cleopatra call, The second one's named Sadie Hall, The third one is a slattern. Three flowers, all curlycues and swirls, Each blare-mouthed like a trumpet; One used to fish for swine with pearls, The second was the best of girls, The third one was a strumpet. Three red-mouthed roses on the wall As bright and hot as blood; The first one caused an empire fall, The second was just Sadie Hall, The third died in the mud.

XXVI--CHANT ROYAL OF THE DEJECTED DIPSOMANIAC

To Hal Steed

Some fools keep ringing the dumb waiter bell Just as I finish killing Uncle Ned; I wonder if they could have heard him yell? A moment since I cursed at them and said: “This is a pretty time to bring the ice!” --Old Uncle Ned! Two times of late, or thrice, I've thought of prodding him with something keen, But always Fate has seemed to intervene; Last night, for instance, I was in the mood, But I was far too drunken yestere'en----- My way of life can end in nothing good! At Mrs. Dumple's, last week, when I fell And spoiled her dinner party I was led Out to a cab; they saw I was not well And took me home and tucked me into bed. I should quit mingling hashish with my rice! I should give over singing “Three Blind Mice”

At funerals! Why will I make a scene? Why should I feed my cousins Paris Green? I am increasingly misunderstood: When I am tactless, people think 'tis spleen. My way of life can end in nothing good. Why should one cry that he is William Tell, Then flip a pippin from his hostess' head That none but he can see? Why should one dwell Upon the failings of the newly wed At wedding breakfasts? Can I not be Nice? I am so silly and so full of vice! Such prestidigitator tricks, I ween, As finding false teeth in a soup tureen Are not real humour; they are crass and crude, And cast suspicion on the host's cuisine: My way of life can end in nothing good. My wife and her best friend, a social swell, Zoo-ward I lured to see the cobras fed;-- “We can't get home,” I giggled, “for the El Is broken, Sarah--let's elope, instead!” I spoke of all she'd have to sacrifice, And she seemed yielding to me, once or twice, Until my wife broke in and said: “Eugene, Your finger nails are seldom really clean;-- I'd loose poor Sarah's hand, Eugene, I would!” How weak and stupid I have always been! My way of life can end in nothing good. I drink and doze and wake and think of hell, My eyes are blear from all the tears I shed: I'm pitiably bald: I'm but a shell! I sobbed to-day, “I wish that I were dead!” I wish I could quit drugs and drink and dice. I wish I had not talked of chicken lice The Sunday that we entertained the Dean, Nor shouted to his wife that paraffin Would make her thin beard grow, nor played the food Was pennies and her face a slot machine: My way of life can end in nothing good. --That bell again: A voice: “Is your name Bryce? These goods is C. O. D. Send down the price!” “Bryce lives,” I yell, “at Number Seventeen!” Bryce doesn't live there, but I feel so mean I laugh and lie; my tone is harsh and rude. --Uncle is gone! I'm phthisical and lean-- My way of life can end in nothing good!

XXVII--PROVERBS XXIII, 29

To Oliver Herford

From many a classic scroll and tome In golden texts the warnings shine: “If you must drink, get soused at home! Will you get pickled? Then use brine!” Each generation gets a sign, But each one needs another prod From scriptures human or divine-- The Wastrel always drops his Wad! Sleek Athens from the Attic loam With ill intention coaxed the vine-- Arcadian Simps admired the foam While hair-oiled City Gents malign Dropped philters in the neatherd's stein-- Soon Corydon upon the sod Lay coinless with a cloven chine-- The Wastrel always drops his Wad!

When Gallic ginks Cook-toured to Rome, Or roaring Teutons from the Rhine, The thought would fill some yokel's dome To dally with the stranger's wine-- Next reel: tough students sprain his spine And bean him with a curule rod And roll him down the Palatine: The Wastrel always drops his Wad! Raus! Bacchus, with that breath of thine, And sad eyes like a bilious cod! Me for the Tracts--I've learned, in fine, The Wastrel always drops his Wad!

XXVIII--AN OBJECT LESSON

To Bobby Rogers

[Ill 0152]

A young man in a Mu-se-um Was showing me a mummy Who lay there patiently, but glum, A-clasping of his tummy. . . Cophetua or Kafoozelum, Or some such regal rummy. “In youth,” says I, “this king was gay, In spite of Mrs. Grundy; He burnt the Nile one Saturday,

But where was he on Sunday?” I added, in my learned way, “'Sic transit gloria mundi!' “He conquered princes not a few; They voted as he bid 'em. From Babylon to Timbuctoo, From Sheba up to Siddim, He thought of things he shouldn't do, And then he went and did 'em! “He loved to send out royal bids For high Egyptian jinkses Where pretty Theban katydids And little Memphian minxes Would trot among the pyramids And tango round the sphinxes . . . “But now, in his sarcophagus, How quite deceased we find him, With sand in his aesophagus And all his past behind him, While Time (the anthropophagus!) Is whetting teeth to grind him. “Then note, my lad, the end of kings! Therefore, avoid ambition, For earthly greatness all has wings. You stick to your position, And if men come with crowns and things To tempt you, go a-fishin'!” “Was I a Kingly Souse,” says he, Impressed from A to Izzard, “Would I wind up so leathery As this departed wizard, With baldness on the dome of me, And gravel in my gizzard?” “You would without a doubt,” says I, “Lose wealth and health and hair, O!” Shaken with sobs he made reply, “I promise, and I swear, O! That I will never drink!--and try And never be a Pharaoh!”

XXIX--A KANSAS TRAGEDY

To Charley Stansbury

I started from Missouri, The western part of Missouri, To ride to Nicodemus, To Nicodemus, Kansas, In the western part of Kansas; Not far from Happy, Kansas, In Graham County, Kansas . . . Across the State of Kansas I started in a flivver . . . A jolty little flivver with a rhythm rather jerky . . . Irregularly rhythmical, when rhythmical at all . . . I had to get to Nicodemus By noon on Saturday to pay the mortgage On a farm near Nicodemus, Graham County, Kansas, Belonging to a sweetheart who would otherwise be rooned Financially and so could not afford to marry me. . . . As I entered into Kansas, And crossed Miami County, At the town of Ossawatomie I received a telegraphic message From my love at Nicodemus. “Hasten with the money,” said the telegraphic message, “Hasten with the money you are bringing from my Uncle. From my Uncle Jethro, in Missouri, For the man that holds the mortgage, Banker Jasper Grinder, who holds the fiendish mortgage, Has said he will foreclose it And take away the homestead at noon on Saturday, Or else I'll have to marry him, To keep him from foreclosing, Marry Banker Jasper Grinder to keep him from foreclosing . . . I would hate to marry Grinder, But, on the other hand, I would hate to lose the whole alfalfa crop . . . Hasten with the money, From my Uncle Jethro, Hasten to your true love, Miss Elvira Simpkins, At Nicodemus, Kansas.” Three hundred miles away Was Nicodemus, Kansas, Nicodemus, Graham County, Not so far from Happy, Kansas Could I do it in a flivver In ten hours? from Ossawatomie I started with a burst of speed, That carried me to Quenemo, To Quenemo, in Osage County, Kansas, At the rate of forty miles an hour . . . At a garage in Quenemo I paused for gasolene, At Quenemo, in Osage County, Kansas . . . But the man that ran the place With shrill bucolic snicker Said: “There ain't no gasolene! The gasolene in Kansas Has all been took and contrabanded, Leastways, commandeered, Just one hour ago, By order of the Governor, The Governor of Kansas, On account of military operations “... No gasolene in Kansas! And three hundred miles away my love, My love, Elvira Simpkins, Was waiting for the money I had got from Uncle Jethro To save the home at Nicodemus From the clutch of Jasper Grinder! “I will telegraph the money!” I shouted With a flash of inspiration. . . But the station agent told me, “There ain't no telegraph nor nothing Runs into Nicodemus, To Nicodemus, Kansas. As fur as I can see in this here book!” And I looked at the wire from Elvira again And saw it had been sent from Happy, Kansas, And all the time the precious Minutes fluttered by Banker Jasper Grinder, in Nicodemus, Kansas, Minute after minute, Was approaching nearer to the hour of his desire . . . I could hear him chuckle, The dry and throaty chuckle that village bankers chuckle In the semi-arid regions Another inspiration came to me and I cried: “I will run my flivver To Nicodemus, Kansas, On alcohol, by heck! I can make the engine in my little flivver Run to Nicodemus, Kansas, On alcohol, by Henry!” But the crowd that gathered around me Laffed and laffed and laffed . . . “They ain't no alcohol in Kansas,” Said the crowd, between its chortles-- “Kansas is a dry State, It's prohibition Kansas, And you'll never get to Nicodemus Graham County, Kansas,” Just then the village toper A gentle creature and decayed Thrust into my hand a gallon Of Stutter's Stomach Bitters, He handed me four big quarts Of Stutter's Stomach Bitters, And I poured 'em in the tank and left the town of Quenemo, with the engine doing lovely And the flivver going strong And I reached the town of Skiddy, The town of Skiddy, Kansas, in Morris County, Kansas, And I drew up by the drug store and I yelled For Stutter's Stomach Bitters . . . “I must reach Elvira Simpkins, in Nicodemus, Kansas, 'Ere the clock strikes 12 . . . Give me Bitters, give me Bitters! Fill the tank with Bitters, for I race to raise the mortgage But the druggist said: “There's been a run on Bitters! Considerable colic in this watermelon weather!-- How about Stewroona?” On a gallon of Stewroona I ran from Skiddy, Kansas, As far as Elmo, Kansas, And there I laid in nineteen quarts Of prohibition appetizer: Doctor Bunkus's Discovery for Kidneys Westward, aver westward;”: To my love,- Elvira Simpkins At Nicodemus, Kansas, I ran on Doctor Bunkus, through the dryest belt of Kansas, Through the prohibition centre, Dear Old Doctor Bunkus urged my little flivver; From Elmo, to Palacky, Six quarts of Lily Gingham's Discovery And a dozen more of Bunkus Took me nearer, nearer, nearer, To my love, Elvira Simpkins . . . From Palacky west to Pfeifer, Through the town of Fingal, Then northward to Ogallah, I ran on Si wash Injun Soorah, A Remedy for Liver Trouble, Take a wineglass full before each meal. Nearer, ever nearer, to my love at Nicodemus From Ogallah north to Happy, North to Happy, Kansas, in Graham County, Kansas, North and west to Happy, word of glorious omen . . . And the villagers came down to sniff the glad aroma Of the flying flivver As I turned north to Nicodemus At thirteen minutes until noon, Filled once more with! Stutter's Stomach Bitters I raced into the presence of my love,' Elvira Simpkins. Alas! Alas! Ala: Elvira did not clasp me in her sturdy Kansas arms She sniffed the air and said: “I never will be wedded To a man who reeks with liquor! Give me Uncle Jethro's money! And don't you leave that drunken flivver on the streets of Nicodemus. And she went and married Jasper Grinder after all.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Old Soak, and Hail And Farewell, by Don Marquis