Contents of this magazine are copyrighted. Republication of any
part permitted when properly credited to Capt. Billy’s Whiz
Bang.
“We have room for but one soul loyalty and that is loyalty to
the American people.”—Theodore Roosevelt.
Copyright 1921
By W. H. Fawcett
Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang employs no solicitors. Subscriptions
may be received only at authorized news stands or by direct
mail to Robbinsdale. We join in no clubbing offers, nor do we
give premiums. Two-fifty a year in advance.
Edited by a Spanish and World War Veteran and dedicated to the
fighting forces of the United States
_Drippings From the Fawcett_
Some up-country contributor sends us in a lengthy “poem” under the
alluring caption, “Ode to a Jackass.” This verse libertinage starts off
something in the following fashion:
Oh, well do I remember yet,
How very proud I used to get
When, like a little king, I’d set—
Upon my donkey.
There are several more verses which serve as proof that out in the
rhubarbs the molasses candy is a mocker and soda pop a raging. The only
redeeming feature in free verse is its mystery. Take this thing by Ellen
Janson in “The Measure” entitled “Shadowy—Under My Window,” for example:
Shadowy—under my window—
Your low reed sobs
Its desert love-song to the remembering stars.
Shadowy—
All the night my breasts are lilies,
My lips are passion flowers.
Now, there you are—a nice idea, neatly handled and mysterious. Your
guess as to what Poetess Janson is driving at is as good as mine—and
both probably are wrong. Perhaps she was talking to Fred Beauvais under
her window, or Jim Stillman. Or it may have been the alley cat—a thing
sobbing in the backyard to the remembering stars.
And so the mystery thickens like onion jelly.
* * * * *
We let Gus read both these poems—the “Ode to a Jackass” and
“Shadowy—Under My Window”—and Gus called the Shadowy stuff too highbrow.
But Gus doesn’t know “highbrow” poetry when he reads it. Neither one is
regular, lollypop highbrow literature. We have before us a recent copy of
“Current Opinion” containing the following howl from the highbrow poet,
Carl Sandburg:
My shirt is a token and a symbol
More than a lover for sun and rain,
My shirt is a signal
And a teller of souls.
I can take off my shirt and tear it
And so make a ripping, razzly noise,
And the people will say,
“Look at him tear his shirt.”
I can keep my shirt on;
I can sit around and sing like a little bird,
And look ’em all in the eye and never be fazed.
I can keep my shirt on.
If we hadn’t happened across this copy of Current Opinion enroute home
from the Atlantic City tea party we would have been just as ignorant as
Gus as to what constitutes real highbrow poetry. We have known dames who
could translate the languages of their Mexican hairless puppies. We have
seen dumb-bells trying to get a prescription from an ouija board. Most
poets—even the cuckoo who wrote the “Ode to a Jackass”—are familiar with
the “voices of nature.” But unless we have been eating a wagon load of
evaporated apples smothered in bootleg without any flavor—especially
without vanilla flavor—Sandburg is shadow-boxing with nut sundaes when he
is not writing poetry.
Sandburg is beyond all surgery.
But that is highbrow, Gus, granting the shirt was clean, which we very
much doubt.
* * * * *
When Gus was back East with me where they use the sign language—sign here
and sign there—we took in a New York production and one of the comic
lyrics handed over the footlights went something like this:
Oh, the Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Vamp, Vamp,
She’s a nectarine, a pippin and a peach;
She’s emotional and sexual and highly intellectual
And equally effectual in each.
She’s a jolly little sport with the boys of every sort,
In the college, in the court or in the camp—
Though her years may handicap her,
Why the flapping of the Flapper
Isn’t in it with the vamping of the Vamp, Vamp, Vamp,
Of the variable, veritable vamp.
Nothing “highbrow” about that—yet we can picture a crowd of Minneapolis
undergraduates sitting beside a big pine tree at our Breezy Point lodge
on a moonlight night. We shall let you complete the portrayal. It isn’t
poetry, just as Gus says, and it isn’t highbrow like the “Tale of the
Shirt” and the “Lily Breasts.” But, it should go ringing down in cabaret
history with “Cheer, Cheer, the Gang’s All Here”; “Shall I Get You Now or
Must I Hesitate?” and other classics of the post-prohibition age.
* * * * *
That thing you call a head is merely a mole placed on your shoulders to
keep your backbone from unraveling.
* * * * *
I was standing outside the Urban meat market in Robbinsdale the other day
when a neighbor lady, carrying her baby, walked up to me. “If you’ll hold
baby while I buy some meat I’ll treat you to a nice cool drink in the
drug store,” she said to me.
I took the kidlets in my arms while mother did her shopping. I stood
around for at least five minutes before the kindly lady finally completed
her purchases.
“Thank you, Captain Billy,” she said, as she took her baby from me. “I
suppose you’re ready for that drink now, aren’t you?”
“No,” I answered. “Really, Mrs. Smith, I’m not the least bit dry today.”
* * * * *
We received a very interesting letter from Deacon Gifford’s son, John,
the other day. Giff Junior went out to California to become a movie hero
and at present has employment in Hollywood as a pilot in the Universal
stables. He piles it here and there as he used to do in his father’s
barn. We will give you Giff’s letter as we feel sure you will be
interested in any word from our old friend John.
“Dear Captain Billy: I went out to visit a nice girl in Watts,
California, twenty minutes’ ride from Los Angeles, tuther night
and she had a nice little vurse which she recited to me, which
I am sending you to put in the Whiz Bang:
_O, she shook a little shimmy,_
_Then she shook a little knee;_
_She shook her little shoulder_
_As she danced away with me._
_Handsome feller shook an eyelid,_
_’N she shook her’s back in glee,_
_Shook his head kinda sideways_
_And directly she shook me._
“Watts is a new town, as I have said before, and the most
popular man in town is Reverund Ismus. He always is invited to
every wedding and funeral.
“I went to a home brew party the other night, but before I got
there the party was dead and Reverund Ismus eridicated the
burial service, thusly:
“‘Brethren and Sistern, we must now bid a fond farewell to
Deacon Jones (here someone in the audience remarked “What
farewell could be sweeter”), who now lies uninterrupted. We
must benefit by the Deacon’s calamity and teach our children to
read and write, that they may be able to discern the difference
between ‘Malt and Hops’ and ‘Rough on Rats.’ The choir will now
sing ‘Awaken Sleeping Angels’ for Brother Deacon Jones is now
entering the gates of Heaven.’
“We have a wonderful barber shop in town. He isn’t doing much
business now and when I stepped in for a shave the other day he
was asleep in the chair. I coughed a couple of times. He awoke,
jumped up quick, and shouted,
“‘Next!’
“They also have a police force in Watts. Yesterday I saw him
arrest a fellow in an auto. The fellow wanted to know what he
was pinched for.
“‘Fer not sticking out yer hand when turning a busy corner.’
“‘Well, I couldn’t very well let go of the wheel to stick out
my hand, could I?’
“‘Where was yer other hand?’
“‘Oh, I had that around the emergency.’ Whereupon the girl
sitting next to him blushed furiously. I didn’t know why unless
the cop flirted with her or something. Women are awfully funny
anyway.
“By the way, Captain, is your present wife your first mate?
“Your old friend,
“John.”
* * * * *
Ye editor received an interesting communication the other day from our
friend A. Rouse, which we will pass on to you for your edification:
“T’other night I passed through your summer capital, i.e., Pequot, and in
spite of the uncouth hour, climbed off the rattler to see if I could view
the illustrious Gus or the famous member of the specie bovine, Pedro. I
was disappointed, but what I started out to say was that as we approached
the aforementioned hamlet, I remarked to George, the genial and dusky
skipper of the ‘Sokluk,’ that we seemed to be making a little better
seaway for the passed few miles.
“Yessah, ah reckon we is,” said George, “She’s sure runnin’ right smooth
jes now. Almost seem lak ol’ engineer done succeed in gettin’ her back on
the ties once mo.”
* * * * *