THE MAN ABOUT TOWN
Oh, the “Man About Town;” the “Man About Town;”
He sometimes is “up,” and he’s usually “down.”
He’s always well-dressed, and he’s real debonair
And lives by his wits with a true savoir faire.
He quotes from R. Kipling, R. Service and “sich;”
Looks down on the poor, “plays up” to the rich.
The wise cannot answer his fool questionings;
His mental suggestions are terrible things.
He “blows hot and cold” with his two-edged breath,
And plays for your confidence “even till death.”
He looks in your eyes in a terrible way,
To find what you’ve “doped,” not because he’s O. K.
He’s glib on eugenics, and smattered in all
The games of cheap “con” on this old earthly ball.
Some day you may meet him, a real mental clown.
That cosmic creation, “The Man About Town.”
ELK CREEK
Purling and winding midst balsam and pine;
Hiding ’neath willow and spruce.
Sinuous, singing a sweet crooning rhyme;
Pleading to malcontents “truce.”
Lilting the line of a sad roundelay,
Presaging optimist’s prayer.
Sun-lit, twisting its silvery way,
Moon-kissed, ethereal, rare.
HOW THE VILLAGE CANARD STARTED
Tom walked into a bar-room to have a quiet beer,
Odds Bodkins! Jerry saw him, white-necktied Jerry Lear.
Now Jerry was an elder, a presbyter, you see,
Who prated loud ’gainst drinking, but “sneaked one” frequently.
Tom Benton was no tippler, but took one when he would,
No sweeter, kinder fellow e’er lived, nor half so good.
His quiet deeds of kindness, a help now here, now there,
A “candle under bushel” who always seemed to care
To help the weak and erring in unobtrusive way;
To make the lowly happy, and aching hearts make gay
By quip or jest or story, by his own soulful smile,
By merry rippling laughter, which heartened them awhile—
A law unto himself, then, this lovable old soul,
Who treated men as humans, but couldn’t “Jordan Roll,”
A bent and crooked body, but straight and pure at heart,
Who loved the young and aged, whom tears could rend apart.
Now this is how it happened that poor old Tom was damned
By Puritanic gossips through length and breath of land.
“Drab” Jerry told the parson, who told his wife, you see;
His wife informed Ned Nosy of Tom’s catastrophe,
Ned was a devout deacon, a long, thin-visaged wight,
Who’d sneak away sub rosa to train around at night,
But Sunday sat in church pew and bawled a mighty chant,
Or railed against men’s vices with Puritanic rant.
Ned buttonholed old Bowser, a wily, canny runt,
Who’d beat deserving clients by doing bankrupt’s stunt.
Old Bowser told his sister, the village gossip kind
Quite “confidential-like” spake to her “who speak my mind.”
Miss Bowser told the Hearts’ Club of wondrous pedigree,
Who all exclaimed “how dreadful,” at poor Tom’s plight you see.
The Club then told their “hubbies,” all men of great renown,
Of more or less veracity, who quickly told the “town.”
And so these old bucolics ripped poor Tom fore and aft;
They sneered and jeered and pitied, and chaffed and leered and laughed.
His quiet little “night-caps” grew to a mighty stream,
A riotous, raw revel, a Bacchanalian scream,
Now to the mighty truth, then, of all that canard crew,
There wouldn’t be a feather left if each one had his due.
THE SPRING VIOLET
Nestling in sun-lit valley;
Dew-kissed and petaled so rare;
Dainty as Daphne’s divinest;
Color cerulean, fair.
Graceful, petite and suggestive;
Urging the wooer’s behest,
Tenderly, lovingly covering
The heart in dear Mother Earth’s breast.
SANDY FLASH
A robber, in legend, S. Flash,
Was chock full of pep, fire, dash,
For he bluffed Chester County,
Bamboozled big bounty.
Some legend. Some brigand, one Flash.
Now this bold buccaneer, Sandy Flash,
When chock full of pep, fire, dash,
Made Abe Buzzard a piker,
Also Jess James, “Red Mike” or
The others a la Sandy Flash.

(After reading Bayard Taylor’s “Story of Kennett.”)
THE NEW SUIT
Willie Fiddle D. D. boasted twenty-five years;
He’d frittered his life quite away.
He lisped in a manner which moved one to tears,
And answered to all things, “I say!”
He sported a monocle really de trop,
And dined at Martin’s every night;
He talked of the gossip about “so-and-so”,
But “nevvah, ah nevvah,” talked “fight”.
Now grandfather D. had a plethoric purse
Which grandson would “touch” now and then;
For Willie since leaving his fond, doting nurse
Had not had real work in his ken.
Now once on a time, after dinner, at nine,
Which is really the time for a “touch,”
Old granddad sat reading of terrible war,
Whose horrors had troubled him much,
When Willie broke in, twixt a lisp and a squirm,
And plead for the price of a suit.
The old man turned red, white and blue, each in turn,
And out shot his big heavy boot
“You want a new suit,” roared the old man, aflame,
“You want a new suit, you young fright;
Your country is calling for men; it’s a shame.
Get out in the trenches and fight!
Get out in the trenches and fight like a man
Don’t stand there, you simp, like a mute.
Take a fall to yourself, and fight if you can;
Uncle Samuel will furnish a suit!”
THE LIBERTINE
He boasted a chivalrous birthright;
“The ladies” he toasted in wine;
He fumed at an off-color story,
And spoke of “those sisters of mine.”
Protected them all from designing
Intrigue, conniving and pelf,
Yet we all agreed in opining
He’d protect no girl from himself.
THE LIBERTY CORNET BAND
I’s hyeahd ol’ Massa Sousa
A playin’ wif his band;
Seen Massa Herbert wavin’
An’ beatin’ wif his hand.
De Jazz Band of de Navy—
Say, chile, dat bunch kin play.
But has you hyeahd ouah Lib’ty
Cawnet Band blaze away?
Jess Williams de drum majah,
Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,
A struttin’ lak some rajah,
Toot, toot, chile, hyeah dey come.
Ol’ Goose Greek bridge a crossin’
Zim, zam, de cymbals land.
Keep step, coon, follow long now
Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band.
Today’s ouah day o’ days, chile;
Heads up now, march away!
De sidewalk we’s obstructin’?
Go, long, boss; hyeah dem play.
We’s just a clean fu’gotten
We’s livin! Aint it grand?
Chest out, eyes front, keep step to
De Lib’ty Cawnet Band.
I knows I’s retrospectin’,
But den I’s growin’ old.
I sawt o’ luv dem deah days
When I was pea’t and bold.
Jess Williams de drum majah,
De fines’ in de land.
A struttin’ an’ a leadin’
Dat Lib’ty Cawnet Band.
Jess Williams de drum majah,
Bom, bom, de ol’ bass drum,
A struttin’ lak some rajah,
Toot, toot, hark! hyeah dey come.
Ol’ Goose Creek bridge a crossin’,
Zim, zam, de cymbals land.
Hats off, chile, Lawd bless evah
Ouah Lib’ty Cawnet Band!
THE PERIODIC
A poor periodic,
In mood episodic,
Sat shaking with “nerves” one day,
When a “pony” beside him
Ran way down inside him,
And chased old Neuritis away.
MRS. MURPHY’S PURCHASE
Mrs. Murphy was on purchasing bent,
So she hied to “The Great Big Store.”
She gazed around, then finally went
Towards a fellow just six-feet-four,
A floor-walk man with legs that curved
Till they looked like a mystic O.
“He’d never be catching a hog,” she averred,
“Nor shine at a greased pig show!”
This much to herself—then she said to “that gint”
In a raucous voice of command:
“I want some gloves, of a pearl-gray tint,
To be wearin’ upon me hand.”
The man bowed low and had turned to go
Towards the place where the gloves were sold,
With “walk this way”—when Mrs. M. lo!
Stopped and looked at that figure bold.
She gazed at his legs, then fairly yelled,
As she looked him o’er and o’er,
“Me walk that way, no, not if I’m held;
No! not fer yer whole blamed store!”
THE LEGEND OF
DEBORAH’S ROCK
A rock sits by
A stream.
I don’t know why
They call
It Deborah’s Rock.
I guess
It’s not a “knock”
At her.
It’s hard and rough.
’Twas once
Of prehistoric stuff
And then
’Twas soft, on dit.
For me
I don’t know, see!
They say
An Indian red
Once fell
In love with Deb-
O Rah,
Then out, and why?
Just guess!
(Here you must cry)
She jumped
Right off that rock,
Kersplash!
My what a knock
She had.
She died (Here blink)
And left
Deep print, they think,
On top
The rock, from place
She jumped,
Of foot. Now space
Forbids
I dare deny
She did,
But this I try
To see
In vain, how she
Could sink
Her foot, you see,
Into
That rock so rough.
Now this
Is quite enough
To give
The lie to tale.
But here,
Lest this grow stale,
I say
I just believe
The maid
Weighed tons! Perceive?
Or else
Was built dame, bold,
In pre-
Historic mould
When rock
Was soft and then—
But there,
“I dinna ken!”
THE ACTOR-MAN
A fun-making, pun-making actor,
Came out on the stage one night.
In real histrionics, a factor,
He came down the boards to the light.
“I’m starving,” he cried; “I am needing
Food for my body and soul.”
He looked towards the ceiling in pleading,
Then the curtain came down with a “roll.”
THE GANGSTER
“Hand me the dream book,” the gangster winked;
“Bring out the old harpoon—
I mean the dead list, the men I’ve pinked;
Bilged to the old time tune.
Listen, I’ll tell you the system’s sin;
Show you the way we do—
God, how that cough hurts, I’m most all in—
Guess I’ll confess, I’m through.
Open the dead list, begin with ‘A,’
Andrews, the first one there;
Beat me. I got him; crossed him, say,
Tell me you’ll keep it, swear!
No? Well, to Hell then! I just plain lied;
Framed it his wife wasn’t true.
Killed him? I know it; he up and died;
Took a lead pill or two.
Turn to the ‘B’s’ now, old Doctor Blight,
Lord, how he caught us red,
Square as ye make ’em, but ‘black is white’
Or ‘white is black’ ’tis said;
Least that’s our creed; we painted up
Slip of his boyhood days;
Sensitive man, Blight, he hit the cup,
Took to the rum-dum’s ways.
Look at the ‘C’s’ next, Judge William Clate,
Straight as a ramrod, ‘Will;’
Gave us ‘the double.’ Decision straight?
Sure Mike. He paid the bill.
We stuffed the ballot late in the fall,
Presto! out went the Judge!
Most broke his heart, his friends and all.
Coolly we fed our grudge.
You say it’s rotten? Sure, lad, I know,
Yes, to the very core.
Built on the weakness of ‘So and So.’
‘Framing,’ ‘getting’ and more
Words that a man hates dyed in sin,
Lying as I do here;
‘Dictographs,’ ‘trumping’ and ‘listening in,’
‘Crafty,’ ‘foxy,’ ‘the queer,’
‘Blackmailing,’ ‘crossing,’ ’tis only such,
No other words I’ve known.
Good things in life I ain’t seen much;
What I have reaped I’ve sown.
Laughed at the dreamers, the fighters clean,
Men with no axe to grind;
Scoffed at the white ones and have seen
Others who’ve lost their mind.
Snuffed out the gentle; smeared with mud
Men with escutcheons fair;
Joshed at the learned and cursed blue-blood,
Sneered at their manners rare;
Called them the ‘stuffed suits,’ laid my plot
To safe and sure get mine.
Men call me ‘self-made.’ A self-made what?
Dough I’ve got and some fine
Diamonds a sparklin’, but just know
I ain’t so great; I’m small.
Money does talkin,’ they say, but Joe,
Money won’t do it all.
Boot-licked the Trust, then twisted, swirled
Up on the ‘reps’ I’d killed;
Slimed along playing the underworld;
Think of the blood I’ve spilled!
God bless the self mades, who’re manly ones,
Modest and generous, kind!
Damn such as me, a self-made bum,
Crafty, crooked and blind!
Money’s all right if you’re right, see?
Bad if you’re bad at heart.
Right with yourself is the way to be;
Don’t try to play too smart!
Here’s where you need help, when you’re all in,
Beaten down to a clod;
Showing your hand and squaring up
Yourself when you’re facing God.”
TOM
(With apologies to Thomas and Quintus.)
Oh, T. W. Pierce, scanner of Q. H. Flaccus,
Delver in Socrates’ ways, greetings, best wishes from us.
Juggler in dactyls and such; beating iambic tattoo;
Aristotelian in thought; epic in quality too.
Twin, in love for the old, with one “Scotty” Waddell,
Give us the “once over,” friend. Think that you can’t? What the hell!
Spellbinding classical clubs, Phi Beta Kappa’s delight,
Give us a touch of your art while you are with us to-night,
Better a touch of yourself, you who are true to Yale Blue.
Health and a long life, old friend; all that is fine, Tom, for you!
LA LANGUE ANGLAISE
In French, she tattled like fury;
Her Spanish was quite comme il faut.
Italian she rattled like monkey;
In German, she spoke “high” and “low.”
Though born in Chicago, the windy,
And trussed up in finishing school,
Her English was really a shindy,
And smashed each grammatical rule.
NE’ER MORE
A reader of Poe yclept Lake,
Quite often of ales did partake.
Once he took most a score,
Quoth he ravin’; “Ne’er more,”
So they soon held a wake for one, Lake.
WHEN “TY” COBB COMES TO TOWN
Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat
With a droop in his big blue eye,
His collar wilted, tie askew,
And his red face all awry.
The beads of perspiration rolled
And bathed him cheek and jowl;
He fanned himself with palm leaf fan
And mopped his face with a towel.
Bill Brown, the undertaker, sat,
And into a smile broke he.
He’d been some working “mon” that day;
He’d had funerals twelve, you see.
“Not common-like of common folks,”
He said, and his laugh beguiled,
“But Grandmas twelve of office boys.”
Bill stopped, then broadly smiled.

Transcriber’s Note

Dialect, obsolete and misspelled words were not changed. Added an unprinted hyphen to “so-and-so.”