“I see you are keeping your hired man all right now, Ezra.”
“Yep, keeping him all right.”
“He seems satisfied, too. How’d you do it?”
“Did everything he asked me to. Let him work only four hours and eat with
the family. He got to complaining of dull evenings, so every night I give
him the use of a car of his own, and the money to spend, to go to the
movies in town.”
“That ought to satisfy him.”
“It didn’t, though. He complained of his room, and so I coaxed my son to
trade rooms with him. Then he seemed more settled like.”
“I notice you’ve cut off your whiskers, Ezra.”
“Yeah. Some more of that hired man’s notions.”
“How’s that?”
“He complained they tickled him every time I kissed him good-night.”
* * * * *
Wah, Wah!
“Golly, Moses! Dey got strawberries and cherries and all kinds o’ fruit
covered wit candy. What kind shall ah git?”
“Git a choc’lat covered watermillion.”
* * * * *
Sic ’em, Tige!
“What you need is a tonic to sharpen your appetite,” said the Doctor. “By
the way, what is your occupation?”
“I am a sword swallower in a circus side-show,” replied the caller.
* * * * *
_Little Joe says, “They am jest as many sebbens on de dice as anything
else, ony dey is bashfull.”_
_Smokehouse Poetry_
_The greatest poem of the squared circle ever brought to light is in
store for March Whiz Bang readers, “The Kid’s Last Fight.” That noted
recitation of years ago has been obtained by the Whiz Bang, reset to
verse, and will hold the boards in the March issue._
_The way he staggered made me sick,_
_I stalled, McGee yelled “cop him quick!”_
_The crowd was wise and yellin’ “fake,”_
_They’d seen the chance I wouldn’t take._
* * * * *
“Chi Slim” Twangs ’is Bloomin’ Lyre
By J. Eugene Chrisman.
_Author of “Poppies,” written exclusively for Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang._
By the lake-front near Chicago with her elbows on her knee
There’s a widder-woman waiting and I know she waits for me;
When the wind is from the stock-yards every odor seems to say
“Come you back you lost star-boarder, come you back you skunk and pay!”
Her apron it was greasy and her hair it hung in strings,
And her name was Sarah Lukens but it had been lots o’ things!
When I saw her first a’diggin’ up the makin’s for a stew
And she wasn’t wastin’ nothing that a dog could chaw in two.
Blinkin’ rough for me to lead, tooth-less, sallow and knock-knee’d
Wasn’t carin’ much for class tho—what I needed was a feed.
When the bunch had grabbed their hand-out and we had ’em on the go,
Then she’d start me for “Dutch” Ryan’s with a two-bit piece to throw.
With her head upon my shoulder at the second growler full,
She was lonesome bo, that widder with the rough-stuff that she’d pull!
How I used to feed her full of the “mush-talk” and the bull
For the snow had begun blowin’ and I didn’t like to pull!
But that’s all put behind me, long ago and far away
Since I hit out for St. Looey one night on the C. & A.
But they’re tellin’ in the jungles that the winter’s one best bet
For a young and handsome hobo is to be a widder’s pet.
Oh them boardin’ kitchen smells as she fed me jams and jells
And the skuts of “suds” from Ryans—I won’t ever need naught else!
Ship me somewhere south of “Chi” though where the bloomin’ mob ain’t
cursed
With a Volstead disposition and a man can quench his thirst
For the winter snows are falling and its there that I would be
Either Juarez or Havana with a widder on my knee!
* * * * *