Was this your plan, foul spawn of cosmic mire,
To freeze my soul to stone and icy fire,
To carve me in the moon that all mankind
May know its race is futile, weak and blind—
A horror-blasted statue in the sky,
That does not live and nevermore can die?
The Ballad of Abe Slickemmore
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Guzzle your beer, you lazy louse!
Boast of your lack of knowledge,
And you may go to the bawdy house
But I shall go to college!
A Ballad of Insanity
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Adam was my ball-and-chain,
A tall short mule,
A walking red olay tennis court
In Eden’s judgment pool.
He tore the dubious petticoat
From Eve’s sequestered hips,
Oh, Adam was my elephant
Upon the sea in ships.
The Ballad of Monk Kickawhore
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My brother, he was a keg of beer,
And he spoke with a rotten grammar,
He was quick with his rump as a pitching steer
When he got some girl to ram her.
My sister she would never behave,
Went with the friend of a neighbor,
And he was a pimp and a lowlife knave—
And so she came to her labor.
Some are cradled in silks anon,
And petted and fed on candy,
But I was laid on a demijohn
And all that I drank was brandy.
Some are crummy from dusk till morn,
But none was ever so crummy,
For bastards along my trail were born
Till the Devil himself got chummy.
And I remember a household tough,
And a brother prone to trifle—
But he married a girl who lived on snuff
When her uncle came with a rifle.
And I remember the kitchen wench
Who was Swedish and short and stocky,
And the parties we had on the kitchen bench
Ere I heard of the gonococci.
And how we wriggled and writhed and twitched
Till the kitchen started reeling,
And how she giggled and bucked and pitched
Till my rump went up to the ceiling.
When I grew tall as an army mule
My brother had little to show me,
For I was an expert with my tool
With the proper wench below me.
I travelled far and I took each chance—
Slept with the English wenches,
And jazzed in public all over France
Under the bar-room benches.
Till I lost my virtue and found my mate
A girl with a lisp and a stammer,
And she was built to accommodate
A man with a ten foot rammer.
We slept off our drunks in stables of France,
Fought with the hogs and ganders,
And she left the seat of her under-pants
On the end of a bar in Flanders.
She was so hot that she’d make you melt
Some times on the nose I’d bust her,
And I made her wear a chastity belt
For I knew that I could not trust her.
My tool was sore and it made me frown,
For I knew I shouldn’t abuse it,
But I could not stop when her drawers were down,
Though it hurt like Hell to use it.
Till I took me a new girl out one night,
And we got heated and gay there,
But my wife came down with a swinging right
And knocked me flat as I lay there.
Her high heels beat out a wild tattoo
As she danced upon my belly,
She kicked my rear both black and blue
And beat me into a jelly.
And your girl’s easy where mine was rough,
My brother so slick and sappy,
But mine has a form and yours dips snuff,
And I’ll bet, begob, she’s clappy.
The Custom House on the French Frontier
I passed with my drunken soul-mate,
And they took her drawers for a souvenir
And hung them over the toll-gate.
The Belgian women raised a row
When she kicked them on their bustles,
And she tried to ride a milking cow
In a tavern-yard in Brussels.
The Coblenz wenches raised merry Hell
When she said they all were strumpets—
And how you departed I may not tell,
But we left town with trumpets.
I lay on a couch with a ticklish whore,
For her price I did not haggle
She took all I had and wanted more,
But I was limp as a raggle.
Go jazz your wenches and go to Hell,
I want no whores around me,
For I hid in the room of a high hotel
But my goddam wife has found me.
The Bombing of Gon Fanfew
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A gang of the Reds were hanging a Jew
In the Murderer’s Rest Saloon
And the girl at the accordion
Was whanging, “The Devil’s Own Tune”;
Over by the Hangman’s Counter
Sat Anarchist Gon Fanfew
Notching the ears of his light-o’-love,
A murderess known as Lou.
When out of the night where the bullets hummed,
Into the smoking dive
A stranger shot his way within,
Waving a forty-five.
He came with a run as he pulled his gun
And he fired shot three or four
And then he gathered the bodies up
And hove them out the door.
He cut the throat of the music-girl
And sat down on the stool
And if that fellow couldn’t play,
Well, I’m a Royal fool.
He played such tunes as the “Cutthroat’s League”
And “The Murderer’s March” and then
He swung into a tune of his own,
’Twas much like “The Devil’s Den”.
He played of the far-famed “good-old-days”
Sweethearts and lover’s moon,
And as he played we seemed to see
A snug and cozy saloon.
And the rush of the Royal troops,
He shifted the accordion screws,
“No work, no pay!” it seemed to say,
And we shrieked our lust for booze.
And then the stranger wheeled about
And he pulled out his gun,
“And boys,” said he, “you don’t know me
But you will before I’m done.”
“I’ve got some word I wish to say
And they are but a few
But one of you is a bourgeoisie
And that one is Gon Fanfew!”
I ducked and somebody set off a fuse
Two bombs blazed in the dark
Somebody started throwing knives
And guns began to bark.