On Christmas we noticed a lot of you angling around with your
tongue hanging out,
And tearfully beseeching everybody to point your ears toward a
place where they sell licker
Made out of barbed wire and red ink, with a touch of rat poison
thrown in to take the curse off,
And you were willing to divorce yourselves from a complete set
of a dozen dollars
For the privilege of assaulting your stomach with a bottle of
it.
And when you couldn’t get it you were as peeved as a hen that
tries to get results from a doorknob.
And you are the same lads who were whooping it up for pop and
ice water at election time.
And who said that Demon Rum had killed more people than the
doctors.
If you are a dry, why do you run yourselves bowlegged hunting
for unhealthy licker,
And if you believe another lil’ drink won’t do us any harm, why
do you vote the Sahara Desert ticket?
What’s the answer?
Darned if we know. We’re a Mick.
_High Life in South America_
_Reverend Golightly Morrill, veteran of many travels in sinful
climes, will tell of the wickedness of the West Indies in the
March issue of the WHIZ BANG, and how he, sophisticated as he
is, succumbed to the enticements of one of Eve’s daughters
with a tempting bowl. He describes his experience thusly:
“Hot courtesan that yields readily, that drinks and laughs,
that stains the cloth and the gown—the ribald orgy that shows
its foot and its leg, quick to snatch its stiletto from its
garter—” Read it in the next issue._—THE EDITOR.